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*1 

i 


L161— O-1096 


TRUE  LOVE 

A  Story  of 

ENGLISH  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

BY 

SARAH  E.  FARRO. 


DONOHUE  &  HENNEBERRY, 
PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS, 
CHICAGO, 


COPYRIGHT  SECURED  1891. 


FZ47t 


PREFACE. 

The  author  is  aware  that  she  is  entering  a  field  which 
has  been  diligently  cultivated  by  the  best  minds  in  Europe 
and  America.  Her  design  in  the  preparation  of  this  story  is 
to  give  to  the  public  a  sketch  of  her  ideas  on  the  effect  of 
'•true  love."  I  have  tried  to  make  the  plot  exciting  with- 
out being  sensational  or  common,  although  within  the 
bounds  of  proper  romance,  and  create  a  set  of  characters 
most  of  whom  are  like  real  people  with  whose  thoughts 
and  passions  we  are  able  to  sympathize  and  whose  lan- 
guage and  conduct  may  be  appreciable  or  reprehensible 
according  to  circumstances.  Great  pains  have  been  taken 
to  make  this  work  superior  in  its  arrangement  and  finish 
and  in  the  general  tastefulness  of  its  mechanical  execution. 
How  nearly  the  author  has  accomplished  her  purpose  to 
give  to  the  public  in  one  volume  a  clear  and  complete 
treatise  on  this  subject,  combining  many  fine  qualities  of 
importance  to  the  reader,  the  intelligent  and  experienced 
public  must  decide.  Sarah  E.  Farro. 


BV  SKRKH    B.  FSRRO, 


Chapter  I 


mrs.  brewster's  daughters. 


fine  old  door  of  oak,  a  heavy  door  standing  deep 
within  a  portico  inside  of  which  you  might  have 


driven  a  coach,  brings  you  to  the  residence  of 
Mrs.  Brewster.  The  hall  was  dark  and  small,  the  only 
light  admitted  to  it  being' from  windows  of  stained  glass; 
numberless  passages  branched  off  from  the  hall,  one  pe- 
culiarity being  that  you  could  scarcely  enter  a  single  room 
in  it  but  you  must  first  go  down  a  passage,  short  or 
long,  to  get  to  it;  had  the  house  been  designed  by  an 
architect  with  a  head  upon  his  shoulders  and  a  little  com- 
mon sense  within  it,  he  might  have  made  a  respectable 
house  to  say  the  least;  as  it  was,  the  rooms  were 
cramped  and  narrow,  cornered  and  confined,  and  the 
good  space  was  taken  up  by  these  worthless  passages;  a 


2 

plat  of  ground  before  it  was  crowded  with  flowers,  far 
too  crowded  for  good  taste,  as  the  old  gardener  would 
point  out  to  her,  but  Mrs.  Brewster  loved  flowers  and 
would  not  part  with  one  of  them.  Being  the  daughter 
of  a  carpenter  and  the  wife  of  a  merchant  tailor,  she  had 
scrambled  through  life  amidst  bustle  and  poverty,  mov- 
ing from  one  house  to  another,  never  settled  anywhere 
for  long.  It  was  an  existence  not  to  be  envied,  although 
it  is  the  lot  of  many.  She  wras  Mrs.  Brewster  and  her 
husband  was  not  a  very  good  husband  to  her;  he  was 
rather  too  fond  of  amusing  himself,  and  threw  all  the 
care  upon  her  shoulders;  she  spent  her  time  nursing  her 
sickly  children  and  endeavoring  to  make  one  dollar  go 
as  far  as  two.  One  day,  to  her  unspeakable  embarrass- 
ment, she  found  herself  changed  from  a  poor  woman  in 
moderate  circumstances  to  an  heiress  to  a  certain  de- 
gree, her  father  having  received  a  legacy  from  a  rela- 
tive, and  upon  his  death  it  was  wrilled  to  her.  She  had 
much  sorrow,  having  lost  one  child  after  another,  until 
she  had  but  two  left.  Then  she  lost  her  husband  and 
father;  then  settled  at  Bellville  near  her  husband's  na- 
tive place,  upon  her  limited  means.  All  she  possessed 
was  the  inte  re  st  upon  this  sum  her  father  had  left  her, 
the  whole  not  exceeding  $2,000.  She  had  two  daugh- 
ters, Mary  Ann  and  Janey;  the  contrast  between  them 
was  great,  you  could  see  it  most  remarkably  as  they  sat 
together,  and  hrr  love  for  them  was  as  contrasted  as 
light  is  with  darkness.     Mary  Ann  she  regarded  with 


3 


an  inordinate  affection  amounting  almost  to  a  passion; 
for  Janey  she  did  not  care ;  what  could  be  the  reason  of 
this;  what  is  the  reason  that  parents,  many  such  may  be 
found,  will  love  some  of  their  children  and  dislike  others 
they  cannot  tell  any  more  than  she  could;  ask  them  and 
they  will  be  unable  to  give  you  an  answer.  It  does  not 
lie  in  the  children;  it  often  happens  that  those  obtaining 
the  least  love  will  be  the  most  deserving  of  it.  Such 
wras  the  case  here.  Mary  Ann  Brewster  was  a  pale, 
sickly,  fretful  girl,  full  of  whims,  full  of  complaints,  giv- 
ing trouble  to  everybody  about  her.  Janey,  with  her 
sweet  countenance  and  her  merry  heart,  made  the  sun- 
shine of  her  home;  she  bore  with  her  sister's  exacting 
moods,  she  bore  with  her  mother's  want  of  love-,  she 
loved  them  both  and  waited  on  them,  and  carrolled  forth 
her  snatches  of  song  as  she  moved  around  the  house, 
and  was  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long.  Ask  the  serv- 
ants— they  kept  only  two — and  they  would  tell  you  that 
Mrs.  Brewster  was  cross  and  selfish,  but  Miss  Janey 
was  worth  her  weight  in  gold;  the  gold  was  soon  to  be 
transplanted  to  a  home  where  it  would  be  appreciated 
and  cherished,  for  Janey  wras  the  affianced  wife  of 
Charles  Taylor.  For  nearly  a  mile  beyond  Bellville 
lived  Charles  Taylor,  a  quiet,  refined  gentleman,  and 
the  son  of  a  wealthy  capitalist;  his  father  had  not  only 
made  a  fortune  of  his  own,  but  had  several  bestowed 
upon  him;  he  had  died  several  years  before  this  time, 
and  his  wife  survived  him  one  year.    There  were  three 


sisters,  a  cousin  and  two  servants  that  had  lived  in  this 
family  for  a  number  of  years. 

The  beams  of  the  setting  sum  streamed  into  the  din- 
ing-room of  the  Taylor  mansion;  it  was  a  room  of 
line  proportions,  not  dull  and  heavy  as  it  is  the  cus- 
tom of  some  dining-rooms,  but  light  and  graceful 
as  could  be  wished.  Charles  Taylor,  with  his 
line  beauty,  sat  at  one  end  of  the  room,  Miss 
Mary  Taylor,  a  maiden  lady  of  mature  years,  good 
looking  also  in  her  peculiar  style,  sat  opposite  him,  she 
wore  a  white  dress,  its  make  remarkably  young,  and 
her  hair  fell  in  ringlets,  young  also;  at  her  right-hand 
sat  Matilda,  singularly  attractive  in  her  quiet  loveliness, 
with  her  silver  dotted  muslin  dress  trimmed  with  white 
ribbons;  at  her  left  sat  Martha,  quiet  in  manner,  plain 
in  features;  she  had  large  gray  eyes,  reflective  strangely 
deep,  with  a  circle  of  darker  gray  around  them,  when 
the\-  were  cast  upon  you  it  was  not  at  you  they  looked, 
but  at  what  was  within  you,  at  your  mind,  your  thoughts; 
at  least  such  was  the  impression  they  carried.  Thus  sat 
this  worthy  group,  deep  in  thought,  for  they  had  been 
conversing  about  the  weather,  that  had  been  so  damp, 
for  it  had  been  raining  for  months,  and  the  result  was  a 
malarial  fever,  visiting  the  residents  of  Belleville,  and  it 
was  very  dangerous,  for  the  sufferer  would  soon  lapse 
into  unconsciousness  and  all  was  over;  and  it  was  gen- 
erally believed  that  the  fever  was  abated.  A  rap  at  the 
door  brought  Charles  Taylor  to  hit  feet,  it  was  George, 


5 


the  old  gardener,  he  had  come  to  tell  them  the  fever  had 
broken  out  again.  "What!"  exclaimed  Charles.  "The 
fever  broken  out  again?"  "  Yes,  it  have,"  said  George, 
who  had  the  build  of  a  Dutchman,  and  was  taciturn 
upon  most  subjects;  in  manner  he  was  most  surly  and 
would  hold  his  own  opinion,  especially  if  it  touched  upon 
his  occupation,  against  the  world. 

The  news  fell  upon  Charles'  heart  like  a  knell;  he  fully 
believed  the  danger  to  have  passed,  though  not  yet  the 
sickness.  "  Are  you  sure  that  the  fever  has  broken  out 
again,  George?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause.  "I  ain't  no 
surer  than  I  was  told,"  returned  George.  "  I  met  Doc- 
tor Brown,  and  he  said  as  he  passed,  that  the  fever  had 
broken  out  again."  "Do  you  know  where?"  asked 
Charles.  "  He  said,  I  believe,  but  I  didn't  catch  it;  if  I 
stopped  to  listen  to  the  talk  of  fevers  where  would  my 
work  be?"  George  moved  on  ere  he  had  done  speak- 
ing, possibly  from  the  impression  that  the  present  talk 
was  not  forwarding  his  work.  Taking  his  black  silk  hat 
Charles  said,  "  I  shall  go  out  and  see  if  I  can  glean  any 
news;  I  hope  it  may  be  a  false  report."  He  was  just 
outside  the  walks  when  he  saw  Doctor  Brown,  the  most 
popular  doctor  in  the  village,  coming  along  quickly  in 
his  buggy;  Charles  motioned  his  hand,  and  the  driver 
pulled  up.  "  Is  it  true,  this  fresh  report  of  fever?"  "Too 
true,  I  fear,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  am  on  my  way 
now,  just  summoned."  "Who's  attacked?"  "Mary 
Ann  Brewster."    The  name  appeared  to  startle  Charles. 


6 


"Mary  Ann  Brewster,"  he  uttered,  "she  will  never  pull 
through  it."  The  doctor  raised  his  eye-brows  as  if  he 
thought  it  doubtful,  and  motioned  to  his  driver  to  move 
on.  On  the  morning  in  k  question  Mary  Ann  Brew- 
ster awoke  sick;  in  her  impatient,  fretful  way  she 
called  out  to  Janey,  who  slept  in  an  adjoining  room. 
Janey  was  fast  asleep,  but  she  was  used  to  being 
aroused  out  of  her  sleep  at  unreasonable  hours  by 
Mary  Ann  and  she  threw  on  her  dressing-gown  and 
hastened  to  her.  "  I  want  some  tea,"  began  Mary  Ann, 
"  I  am  as  sick  and  thirsty  as  I  can  be."  She  was  really 
of  a  sickly  constitution  and  to  hear  her  complain  of  be- 
ing "  sick  and  thirsty  "  was  nothing  unusual.  Janey  in  her 
loving  nature,  her  sweet  patience,  received  the  informa- 
tion with  as  much  concern  as  though  she  had  never 
heard  it  before.  She  bent  over  Mary  Ann  and  spoke 
tenderly,  "  where  do  you  feel  pain,  dear,  in  your  head 
or  chest,  where  is  it?"  "  I  told  you  that  I  was  sick 
and  thirsty,  and  that's  enough,"  peevishly  answered 
Mary  Ann.  "  Go  and  get  me  some  tea."  "  As  soon  as 
I  can,"  said  Janey,  soothingly.  "  There  is  no  lire  yet,  the 
girls  are  not  up,  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  later  than  four, 
by  the  look  of  the  morning."  "Very  well,"  cried  Mary 
Ann,  the  sobs  being  contrived  by  the  catching  up  of  her 
breath  in  temper  not  by  tears,  "  you  can't  call  the  maids 
I  suppose,  and  vou  c  an't  put  yourself  the  least  out  of 
the  way  to  alleviate  my  suffering;  you  want  to  go  to 
bed  again  and  sleep  till  nine  o'clock;  when  I  am  dead 


7 


you  will  wish  you  were  more  like  a  sister;  you  possess 
great,  rude  health  yourself,  and  you  feel  no  compassion 
for  these  who  do  not."  An  assertion  unjust  and  un- 
true like  many  others  made  by  Mary  Ann.  Janey  did 
not  possess  rude  health,  though  she  wras  not  like  her  sis- 
ter always  complaining,  and  she  had  more  compassion 
for  Mary  Ann  than  she  deserved.  "  I  will  see  wrhat  I 
"  can  do,"  she  gently  said,  "  you  shall  soon  have  some 
tea."  Passing  into  her  own  room  Janey  hastily  dressed 
herself.  When  Mary  Ann  was  in  one  of  her  exacting 
moods  there  could  be  no  more  sleep  for  Janey. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  whether  I  could  not 
make  the  fire  without  waking  the  girls,  they  had  such  a 
hard  day's  work  yesterday  cleaning  house;  yes,  if  I  can 
get  some  chips  I  will  make  a  fire."  She  went  down  to 
the  kitchen,  hunted  up  what  wras  required,  laid  the  fire 
and  lighted  it;  it  did  not  burn  quickly,  she  thought  the 
chips  might  be  damp  and  she  got  the  bellows;  there  she 
was  on  her  knees  blowing  at  the  chips  and  sending  the 
blaze  amid  the  coals,  wrhen  some  one  entered  the 
kitchen.  "  Miss  Janey!"  It  wras  one  of  the  girls,  Eliza; 
she  had  heard  a  noise  in  the  kitchen  and  had  arisen. 
Janey  explained  that  her  sister  was  sick  and  tea  wTas 
wanted.  "  Why  did  you  not  call  us?"  "  You  wrent  to 
bed  so  late  and  had  worked  so  hard,  I  thought  that  I 
would  not  disturb  you."  "  But  it  is  not  lady's  work, 
Miss."  "  I  think  ladies  should  put  on  gloves  when  they 
undertake  it,*'  gayly  laughed  Janey;  "  look  at  my  black 


s 


hands/-  "  What  would  Mr.  Taylor  say  if  he  saw  you 
on  your  knees  lighting  a  fire?"  "  He  would  say  I  was 
doing  right,  Eliza,"  replied  Jane}',  a  shade  of  reproof  in 
her  firm  tones,  though  the  allusion  caused  the  color  to 
crimson  her  cheeks;  the  girl  had  been  with  them  some 
time  and  assumed  more  privilege  than  a  less  respected 
servant  would  have  been  allowed  to  do.  The  tea  ready 
Janey  carried  a  cup  of  it  to  her  sister,  with  a  slice  of 
toast  that  she  had  made.  Mary  Ann  drank  the  tea  at  a 
draught,  but  she  turned  with  a  shiver  from  the  toast,  she 
seemed  to  be  shivering  much.  "  Who  wras  so  stupid  as 
to  make  that?  you  might  knowr  I  could  not  eat  it,  I  am 
too  sick."  Janey  began  to  think  she  looked  very  sick, 
her  face  was  flushed  shivering  though  she  was,  her  lips 
weredry,  her  bright  eyes  were  unnaturally  heavy;  she 
gently  laid  her  hands,  cleanly  wrashed,  upon  her  sister's 
brow;  it  felt  burning,  and  Mary  Ann  screamed  out,  "  Do 
keep  your  hands  away,  my  head  is  splitting  with  pain." 
All  at  once  Janey  thought  of  the  fever,  the  danger  from 
which  they  had  been  reckoning  to  have  passed.  "  Would 
you  like  me  to  bathe  your  forehead  with  water,  Mary 
Ann?"  asked  Janey,  kindly.  "I  would  like  you  to  stop 
until  things  are  asked  for  and  not  to  worry  me,"  replied 
Mary  Ann.  Janey  sighed,  not  for  the  cross  temper, 
Mary  Ann  was  always  cross  in  sickness,  but  for  the  suf- 
fering she  thought  she  saw  and  the  half-doubt,  half- 
dread  which  had  arisen  within  her.  I  think  I  had  better 
Call   mamma,  she  thought  to  herself,  though  if  she  sees 


9 


nothing  unusual  the  matter  with  Mary  Ann  she  will  only 
be  angry  with  me;  proceeding  to  her  mother's  chamber 
Janey  knocked  gently,  her  mother  slept  still,  but  the  en- 
trance aroused  her.  "  Mamma,  I  do  not  like  to  disturb 
you,  but  Mary  Ann  is  sick."  "  Sick  again,  and  only 
last  week  she  was  in  bed  three  days,  poor,  dear  sufferer; 
is  it  her  chest?" 

"  Mamma  she  seems  unusually  ill,  otherwise  I  should 
not  have  disturbed  you,  I  feared,  I  thought  you  will  be 
angry  with  me,  if  I  say,  perhaps ";  "  say  what,  don't 
stand  like  a  statue,  Janey."  Janey  dropped  her  voice, 
"  dear  mamma,  suppose  it  should  be  the  fever?"  For 
one  startling  moment  Mrs.  Brewster  felt  as  if  a  dagger 
was  piercing  her  heart;  the  next  she  turned  upon  Janey. 
"Fever  for  Mary  Ann!  How  dared  she  prophesy  it, 
a  low  common  fever  confined  to  the  poor  and  the  town 
and  which  had  gone  away  or  all  but;  was  it  likely  to 
turn  itself  back  again  and  come  up  here  to  attack  her 
darling  child  ?  "  Janey,  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  said  she  hoped 
it  would  prove  to  be  only  a  common  headache;  that  it 
was  her  love  for  Mary  Ann  which  awoke  her  fears. 
The  mother  proceeded  to  the  sick-chamber  and  Janey 
followed.  Mrs.  Brewster  was  not  accustomed  to  observe 
caution  and  she  spoke  freely  of  the  "  fever "  before 
Mary  Ann;  seemingly  for  the  purpose  of  casting  blame 
upon  Janey.  Mary  Ann  did  not  catch  the  fear,  she  ridi- 
culed Janey  as  her  mother  had  done;  for  several  hours 
Mrs.  Brewster  did  not  catch  it  either,  she  would  have 


10 


summoned  medical  aid  at  first,  but  Mary  Ann  in  her 
fretfulness  protested  that  she  would  not  have  a  doctor; 
later  she  grew  worse  and  Doctor  Brown  was  sent  for, 
you  saw  him  in  his  buggy  going  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  Brewster  came  forward  to  meet  him,  Janey,  full 
of  anxiety,  near  her.  Mrs.  Brewster  was  a  thin  woman, 
with  a  shriveled  face  and  a  sharp  red  nose,  her  gray 
hair  banded  closely  under  a  white  cap,  her  style  of  head- 
dress never  varied,  it  consisted  always  of  a  plain  cap 
with  a  quilled  border  trimmed  with  purple  ribbon,  her 
black  dresses  she  had  not  laid  aside  since  the  death  of 
her  husband  and  intended  never  to  do  so.  She  grasped 
the  arm  of  the  doctor,  "You  must  save  my  child!" 
'•Higher  aid  permitting  me,"  answered  the  surgeon. 
"  What  makes  you  think  it's  the  fever?  For  months  I 
have  been  summoned  by  timid  parents  to  any  number  of 
fever  cases  and  when  I  have  arrived  in  haste  they  have 
turned  out  to  be  no  fever  at  all."  "  This  is  the  fever," 
Mrs.  Brewster  replied;  "  had  I  been  more  willing  to  ad- 
mit that  it  was,  you  would  have  been  sent  for  hours  ago, 
it  wasjaney's  fault;  she  suggested  at  day-break  that  it 
might  be  the  fever,  and  it  made  my  darling  girl  so  angry 
that  she  forbade  my  sending  for  advice;  but  she  is  worse 
now,  come  and  see  her."  The  doctor  laid  his  hand  up- 
On  Janey'fl  head  with  a  fond  gesture  as  he  followed  Mrs. 

Brewster;  all  the  neighbors  of  Bellville  loved  Janey  Brew- 
ster. Tossing  upon  her  uneasy  bed,  her  faee  crimson, 
her  hail*  Boating  untidily  around  it,  lav  Mary  Ann,  still 


I  T 

shivering;  the  doctor  gave  one  glance  at  her,  it  was  quite 
enough  to  satisfy  him  that  the  mother  was  not  mis- 
taken. 

"Is  it  the  fever,"  impatiently  asked  Mary  Ann,  un- 
closing her  hot  eyelids;  "  if  it  is  we  must  drive  it  away," 
said  the  doctor  cheerfully.  "  Why  should  the  fever 
have  come  to  me?"  she  rejoined  in  a  tone  of  rebellion. 
"  Why  was  I  thrown  from  my  buggy  last  year  and  my 
back  sprained?  Such  unpleasant  things  do  come  to  us." 
"  To  sprain  your  back  is  nothing  compared  with  this 
fever;  you  got  well  again."  "  And  we  will  get  you  well 
if  you  will  be  quiet  and  reasonable."  "  I  am  so  hot,  my 
head  is  so  heavy."  The  doctor,  who  had  called  for 
water  and  a  glass,  was  mixing  up  a  brown  powder  which 
he  had  produced  from  his  pocket;  she  drank  it  without 
opposition,  and  then  he  lessened  the  weight  of  the  bed- 
clothes, and  afterwards  turned  his  attention  to  the  bed- 
room. It  was  close  and  hot,  and  the  sun  which  had  just 
burst  forth  brightly  from  the  gray  sky  shone  full  upon  it. 
u  You  have  got  the  chimney  stuffed  up,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Mary  Ann  will  not  allow  it  to  be  open,"  said  Mrs. 
Brewster;  "  she  is  sensitive  to  cold,  and  feels  the  slight- 
est draught."  The  doctor  walked  to  the  chimney, 
turned  up  his  coat  cuff  and  wristband  and  pulled  down 
a  bag  filled  with  shavings;  some  soot  came  with  it  and 
covered  his  hand,  but  he  did  not  mind  that;  he  was  as 
little  given  to  ceremony  as  Mrs.  Brewster  was  to  caution, 
and  he  walked  leisurely  up  to  the  wash-stand  to  wash  it 


12 


off.  "  Now,  if  I  catch  that  bag  or  any  other  bag  up 
there  obstructing  the  air,  I  shall  pull  down  the  bricks 
and  make  a  good  big  hole  that  the  sky  can  be  seen 
through;  of  that  I  give  you  notice,  madam."  He  next 
pulled  the  window  down  at  the  top  behind  the  blind,  but 
the  room  at  its  best  did  not  find  favor  with  him.  "  It  is 
not  airy;  it  is  not  cool,"  he  said.  Is  there  not  a  better 
ventilated  room  in  the  house?  if  so,  she  shall  be  moved 
to  it."  "  My  room  is  a  cool  one,"  interposed  Janey 
eagerly;  "the  sun  never  shines  upon  it,  doctor."  It  ap- 
pears that  Janey,  thus  speaking,  must  have  reminded 
the  doctor  that  she  wras  present  for  in  the.  same  uncere- 
monious fashion  that  he  had  laid  his  hands  upon  the 
chimney  bag,  he  now  laid  them  upon  her  shoulder  and 
walked  her  out  of  the  room.  "  You  go  down  stairs, 
Miss  Janey,  and  do  not  come  within  a  mile  of  this  room 
again  until  I  give  you  notice."  During  this  time  Mary 
Ann  was  talking  imperiously  and  fretfully.  "  I  will  not 
be  moved  into  Janey's  room;  it  is  not  furnished  with 
half  the  comforts  of  mine;  it  has  only  a  little  bed-side 
carpet;  I  will  not  go  there,  doctor."  "  Now,  see  here, 
Mary  Ann,"  said  the  doctor  firmly,  "  I  am  responsible 
for  getting  you  well,  and  I  shall  take  my  own  way  to  do 
it.  If  I  am  to  be  contradicted  at  every  suggestion,  your 
mother  can  summon  some  one  else  to  attend  you,  I  will 
not  undertake  it." 

M  My  dear  you  shall  not  be  moved  to  Janey's  room;" 
said  her  mother  coaxingly;   "  you  shall  be  moved  to 


13 


mine,  it  is  larger  than  this,  you  know,  doctor,  with  a 
draught  through  it,  if  you  wish  to  open  the  door  and 
windows." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  let  me  find  her  in  it 
when  I  come  again  this  evening,  and  if  there's  a  carpet 
on  the  floor  take  it  up,  carpets  wrere  never  intended  for 
bed-rooms."  He  went  into  one  of  the  sitting-rooms  w  ith 
Mrs.  Brewrster  as  he  descended;  "  What  do  you  think 
of  the  case,"  she  earnestly  inquired.  "  There  will  be 
some  difficulty  with  it,"  was  his  candid  reply.  "  Her  hair 
must  be  cut  off."  "  Her  hair  cut  off!"  screamed 
Mrs.  Brewster,  "  that  it  never  shall !  She  has  the  most 
beautiful  hair,  what  is  Janey's   compared  to  tier's?" 

"  You  heard  what  I  said,"  he  positively  replied. 

"  But  Mary  Ann  will  not  allow  it  to  be  done,"  she  re- 
turned, shifting  the  ground  of  remonstrance  from  her 
own  shoulders,  "  and  to  do  it  in  opposition  would  be 
enough  to  kill  her."  "  It  will  not  be  done  in  opposition," 
he  answered,  "  she  will  be  unconscious  before  it  is  at- 
tempted." Mrs.  Brewster's  heart  sank  within  her.  "  You 
anticipate  she  will  be  dangerously  ill?"  "In  such  cases 
there  is  always  danger,  but  worse  cases  than,  as  I 
believe  hers  will  be,  are  curable."  "If  I  lose  her  I 
shall  die  myself;"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  if  she  is  to  have 
it  badly  she  will  die !  Remember,  doctor,  how  weak  she 
has  always  been."  "  We  sometimes  find  that  the  weak 
of  constitution  battle  best  with  an  epidemic,"  he  replied, 
"  many  a  hearty  one  is  stricken  down  with  it  and  taken 


off,  many  a  sickly  one  has  pulled  through  it  and  been  the 
better  afterwards." 

"  Everything  shall  be  done  as  you  wish,"  said  Mrs. 
Brewster  humbly  in  her  great  fear.  "  Very  well.  There 
is  one  caution  I  would  earnestly  impress  upon  you,  that 
of  keeping  Janey  from  the  sick-room."  "  But  there  is 
no  one  to  whom  Mary  Ann  is  so  accustomed  as  a  nurse," 
objected  Mrs.  Brewster.  "  Madam,"  burst  forth  the 
doctor  angrily,  "  would  you  subject  Janey  to  the  risk  of 
taking  the  infection  in  deference  to  Mary  Ann's  selfish- 
ness or  to  yours,  better  lose  all  the  treasures  your  house 
contains  than  lose  Janey,  she  is  the  greatest  treasure." 
u  I  know  how  remarkably  prejudiced  you  have  always 
been  in  Janey's  favor,"  spitefully  spoke  Mrs.  Brewster. 
-  If  I  disliked  her  as  much  as  I  like  her,  I  should  be 
equally  solicitous  to  guard  her  from  the  danger  of  infec- 
tion," said  Doctor  Brown.  "  If  you  chose  to  put  Janey 
out  of  consideration  you  cannot  put  Charles  Taylor;  in 
justice  to  him  she  must  be  taken  care  of." 

Mrs.  Brewster  opened  her  mouth  to  reply,  but  closed 
it  again;  strange  words  had  been  hovering  upon  her  lips. 
"  If  Charles  Taylor  had  not  been  blind  his  choice  would 
have  fallen  upon  Mary  Ann,  not  upon  Janey."  In  her 
heart  there  was  a  sore  topic  of  resentment;  for  she  fully 
appreciated  the  advantages  of  a  union  with  the  Taylors. 
Those  words  were  swallowed  down  to  give  utterance  to 
Others.  •'Janey  is  in  the  house,  and  therefore  must  be 
liable  to  take  the  fever;  whether  she  takes  the  infection 


i5 


or  not,  I  cannot  fence  her  around  with  an  air-tight  wall  so 
that  not  a  breath  of  tainted  atmosphere  shall  touch  her, 
I  would  if  I  could,  but  I  cannot."  "  I  would  send  her 
from  the  house,  Mrs.  Brewster;  at  any  rate,  I  would 
forbid  her  to  go  near  her  sister;  I  don't  want  two  patients 
on  my  hands  instead  of  one,"  he  added  in  his  quaint 
fashion  as  he  took  his  departure.  He  was  about  to  step 
into  his  buggy  when  he  saw  Charles  Taylor  advancing 
with  a  quick  step.  "  Which  of  them  is  it  that  is  seized?" 
he  inquired  as  he  came  up.  "  Not  Janey,  thank  good- 
ness," replied  the  doctor.  "  It  is  Mary  Ann;  I  have 
been  persuading  the  madam  to  send  Janey  from  home; 
I  should  send  her  were  she  a  daughter  of  mine."  "  Is 
Mary  Ann  likely  to  have  it  dangerously?"  "  I  think  she 
will;  Is  there  any  necessity  for  you  going  to  the  house 
just  now,  Mr.  Taylor?"  Charles  Taylor  smiled.  "  There 
is  no  necessity  for  my  keeping  away;  I  do  not  fear  the 
fever  any  more  than  you  do."  He  passed  into  the  garden 
as  he  spoke,  and  the  doctor  drove  on.  Janey  saw  him 
and  came  running  out.  "  Oh!  Charles,  don't  come  in; 
do  not  come."  His  only  answer  was  to  take  her  upon 
his  arm  and  enter.  He  raised  the  drawing-room  window, 
that  as  much  air  might  circulate  through  the  house  as 
was  possible,  and  stood  at  it  with  her  holding  her  before 
him.  "Janey,  what  am  I  to  do  with  you?"  "To  do 
with  me?  What  should  you  do  with  me,  Charles?" 
"  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  I  cannot  afford  to  let  this 
danger  touch  you?"    "  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  gently  said. 


i6 


He  knew  that  she  had  a  brave  unselfish  heart,  but  he 
was  afraid  for  her,  for  he  loved  her  with  a  jealous  love, 
jealous  of  any  evil  that  might  come  too  near  her.  "  I 
should  like  to  take  you  out  of  the  house  with  me  now, 
Janey.  I  should  like  to  take  you  far  from  this  fever- 
tainted  town;  will  you  come?"  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  smile,  the  color  coming  into  her  cheeks.  "  How 
could  I,  Charles?"  Anxious  thoughts  were  passing 
through  the  mind  of  Charles  Taylor.  We  cannot  put 
aside  the  conventionalities  of  life,  though  there  are  times 
when  they  press  upon  us  as  an  iron  weight;  he  would 
have  given  his  own  life  almost  to  have  taken  Janey  from 
that  house,  but  how  was  he  to  do  it?  No  friend  would 
be  likely  to  receive  her;  not  even  his  own  sisters;  they 
would  have  too  much  dread  of  the  infection  she  might 
bring.  He  would  fain  have  carried  her  to  some  sea- 
breezed  town  and  watch  over  her  and  guard  her  there 
until  the  danger  should  be  over.  None  would  have  pro- 
tected her  more  honorably  than  Charles  Taylor.  But 
those  conventionalities  the  world  has  to  bow  down  to, 
how  would  the  step  have  accorded  with  them?  Another 
thought  passed  through  his  mind.  "  Listen,  Janey,"  he 
said,  "  suppose  we  get  a  license  and  drive  to  the  parson's 
house;  it  could  all  be  done  in  a  few  hours,  and  you  could 
be  away  with  me  before  night."      As  the  meaning 

dawned  upon  her,  she  bent  her  head,  and  her  blushing 
face,  laughing  at  the  wild  improbability.  "Oh!  Charles, 
you  are  only  joking;  what  would  people  say?"  "  Would 


i7 


it  make  any  difference  to  us  what  they  said?"  "It 
could  not  be,  Charles;  it  is  a  vision  impossible,"  she  re- 
plied seriously.  "  Were  all  other  things  meet,  how  could 
I  run  away  from  my  sister  on  her  bed  of  dangerous  ill- 
ness to  marry  you?" 

Janey  was  right  and  Charles  Taylor  felt  that  she  was; 
the  conventionalities  must  be  observed  no  matter  at  what 
cost.  He  held  her  fondly  against  his  heart,  "  if  aught 
of  ill  should  arise  to  you  from  your  remaining  here  I 
should  never  forgive  myself."  Charles  could  not  re- 
main longer,  he  must  be  at  his  office,  for  business  wras 
urging.  His  cousin,  George  Gay,  was  in  the  private 
room  alone  when  he  entered,  he  appeared  to  be  buried 
five  feet  deep  in  business,  though  he  would  have 
preferred  to  be  five  feet  deep  in  pleasure.  "  Are 
you  going  home  to  supper  this  evening,"  inquired 
Charles?  "The  fates  permitting,"  replied  Mr.  Gay, 
"  You  tell  my  sisters  that  I  will  not  return  until  after  tea, 
Mary  will  not  thank  me  for  running  from  Mrs.  Brewster's 
house  to  hers,  just  now."  "  Charles,"  warmly  spoke 
George  in  an  impulse  of  kindly  feeling,  "  I  do  hope  the 
fever  will  not  extend  itself  to  Janey."  "  I  hope  not," 
fervently  breathed  Charles  Taylor. 


< 


Chapter  1 1 . 


THE  RESIDENCE  OF  CHARLES  TAYLOR. 

Tx  the  heart  of  Bellville  was  situated  the  business  house 
A  of  Bangs,  Smith  &  Taylor,  built  at  the  corner  of  a 
street,  it  faced  two  ways,  the  office  and  its  doors  being  on 
L  street,  the  principal  street  of  the  town.  There  was  also 
a  dwelling-house  on  M  street,  a  new  short  street  not 
much  frequented.  There  were  eight  or  ten  houses  on 
this  street  all  owned  by  the  Taylors,  and  this  street  led 
to  the  open  country  and  to  a  carriage  way  that  would 
take  you  to  the  Taylor  mansion.  It  was  in  one  of  these 
houses  that  Charles  Taylor  had  concluded  to  live  after 
his  marriage  with  Janey  Brewster,  as  it  was  near  his  busi- 
ness and  he  wanted  his  sisters  to  live  there  with  him  as 
it  was  their  mother's  last  request  that  they  keep  together, 
but  up  to  the  present  time  he  had  never  talked  the  mat- 
ter over  with  them.  This  house  attached  to  the  office 
was  a  commodious  one,  its  rooms  were  mostly  large  and 
handsome  and  many  in  number,  a  pillared  entrance  to 
which  you  ascended  by  steps  took  you  into  a  large  hall, 
on  the  right  of  this  hall  was  a  room  used  for  a  dining- 

18 


room,  a  light  and  spacious  apartment,  its  large  window 
opening  on  a  c  overed  terrace  where  plants  could  be  kept 
and  that  again  standing  open  to  a  sloping  lawn  sur- 
rounded with  shrubs  and  flowers.  On  the  left  of  the 
hall  was  a  kitchen,  pantries  and  such  like,  at  the 
back  of  the  hall  beyond  the  dining-room  a  handsome 
staircase  led  to  the  apartments,  one  of  which  was  a  fine 
drawing-room.  From  the  upper  windows  at  the  back 
of  the  house  a  full  view  of  the  Taylor  mansion  might  be 
obtained,  rising  high  and  picturesque,  also  the  steeple  of 
a  cathedral  gray  and  grim,  not  of  the  cathedral  itself, 
its  surrounding  trees  concealed  that. 

In  the  dining-room  of  the  Taylor  mansion  one  evening 
sat  Charles  Taylor  and  his  eldest  sister,  Mary.  This  room 
was  elegant  and  airy  and  fitted  up  with  exquisite  taste;  it 
wras  the  ladies'  favorite  sitting-room.  The  drawing-room 
above  was  larger  and  grander  but  less  used  by  them. 
On  the  evening  in  question,  Charles  Taylor  was  arrang- 
ing plans  for  a  business  trip  with  his  sister,  though  her 
removal  to  town  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  About  ten 
days  previous  to  this,  Marshall  Bangs,  one  of  the  part- 
ners, had  been  found  insensible  on  the  floor  of  his  room : 
he  was  subject  to  attacks  of  heart-disease,  and  this  had 
proved  to  be  nothing  but  a  fainting  spell,  but  it  had 
caused  plans  to  be  somewhat  changed,  for  Mr.  Bangs 
would  not  be  strong  enough  for  business  consultation, 
which  would  have  been  the  chief  object  of  his  journey. 
As  I  said  before,  Charles  and  his  sister  were  sitting 


20 


alone,  their  cousin,  George  Gay,  had  gone  out  for  a 
walk  and  Martha  was  spending  the  evening  at  Parson 
Davis',  for  she  and  Mrs.  Davis  were  active  workers  in 
church  affairs.  The  dessert  was  on  the  table,  but 
Charles  had  turned  from  it  and  was  sitting  opposite  the 
fireplace.  Miss  Taylor  sat  opposite  him,  nearer  the 
table,  her  fingers  busy  with  knitting,  on  which  fell  the 
rays  of  the  chandelier.  "  Mary,"  said  Charles,  earnestly, 
"  I  wish  that  you  would  let  me  bring  Janey  here  on  a  visit 
to  you."  Mary  laid  down  her  knitting.  "  What,  do 
you  mean  that  there  should  be  two  mistresses  in  the 
house,  she  and  I?  No,  Charles,  the  daftest  old  wife  in 
all  the  world  would  tell  you  that  would  not  do."  "  Not 
two  mistresses;  you  would  be  sole  mistress,  as  you  are 
now  :  Janey  and  I  your  guests,  indeed  Mary,  it  would 
be  the  best  plan.  Suppose  we  all  move  to  town  to- 
gether," he  said.  "  It  was  mother's  desire  that  we 
should  remain  together."  "  No,  Charles,  it  would  not  do; 
some  of  the  partners  have  always  resided  near  the  office, 
and  it  is  necessary,  in  my  opinion,  that  you  should  let 
business  men  be  at  their  business.  When  do  you  con- 
template marrying  Janey,"  she  inquired,  after  a  few  min- 
utes of  thought.  "  1  should  like  her  to  be  mine  by 
Thanksgiving,"  was  the  low  answer.  "  Charles!  and 
November  close  upon  us."  "If  not,  some  time  in  De- 
cember," he  continued,  paying  no  heed  to  her  surprise. 
"  It  is  so  decided."  Miss  Taylor  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  With  whom  is  it  decided?"    "  With  Janey."    "  You 


21 


marry  a  wife  without  a  home  to  bring  her  too;  had  cou- 
sin George  told  me  that  he  was  going  to  do  such  a  thing  I 
would  have  believed  him,  not  of  you,  Charles?  "  "  Mary, 
the  home  shall  no  longer  be  a  barrier.  I  wish  you  would 
receive  Janey  here  as  your  guest." 

"  It  is  not  likely  that  she  would  come;  the  first  thing 
a  married  woman  looks  out  for  is  a  home  of  her  own." 

Charles  laughed.  "  Not  come?  Mary,  have  you  yet 
to  learn  how  unassuming  and  meek  is  the  character  of 
Janey?  We  have  spoken  of  this  plan  together,  and 
Janey's  only  fear  is  lest  she  should  be  in  the  way  of 
Miss  Taylor  failing  in  the  carrying  out  of  this  project. 
Mary  (for  I  see  you  are  as  I  thought  you  would  be, 
prejudiced  against  it)  I  shall  take  one  of  the  houses  near 
the  office  in  town  and  there  I  shall  take  Janey.  The 
pleasantest  plan  would  be  for  me  to  bring  Janey  here, 
entirely  as  your  guest;  it  is  what  she  and  I  wrould  both 
like.    If  you  object,  I  shall  take  her  elsewhere." 

Mary  knitted  a  whole  row  before  she  spoke.  "  I  will 
take  a  few  days  to  reflect  upon  it,  Charles,"  she  said. 
"  Do  so,"  he  replied,  rising  and  glancing  a.t  his  watch. 
"  Half  past  eight.  What  time  will  Martha  expect  me? 
I  wrish  to  spend  half  an  hour  with  Janey,  shall  I  go  for 
Martha  before  or  afterwards?" 

"  Go  for  her  at  once,  Charles;  it  will  be  better  for  her 
to  be  home  early." 

Charles  Taylor  w<ent  to  the  hall  door  and  looked  out 
upon  the  night;  he  was  considering  whether  he  need  put 


22 


on  an  overcoat.  It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night,  pleas- 
ant and  genial,  so  he  closed  the  door  and  started.  "  I 
wish  the  cold  would  come,"  he  exclaimed  half  aloud;  he 
was  thinking  of  the  fever  which  still  clung  to  Bell- 
ville,  showing  itself  fitfully  and  partially  in  fresh  places 
about  every  three  or  four  days.  He  took  the  path  lead- 
ing to  L.  street,  a  lonely  road  and  at  night  unfrequented; 
the  pathway  was  so  narrow  that  two  people  could 
scarcely  walk  abreast  without  touching  the  trunks  of  the 
maple  trees  growing  on  either  side  and  meeting  over- 
head. Charles  Taylor  went  steadily  on,  his  thoughts 
running  upon  the  subject  of  his  conversation  with  Mary. 

It  is  probable  that  but  for  the  difficulty  touching  a  resi- 
dence, Janey  would  have  been  his  the  past  summer. 
Altogether,  Charles'  plan  was  the  best,  if  Mary  could  be 
brought  to  see  it,  that  his  young  bride  should  be  her 
guest  for  a  short  time.  Charles,  in  due  course  of  time, 
arrived  at  the  walk's  end  and  passed  through  a  large 
gate.  The  town  lay  in  front  of  him,  gray  and  sombre, 
as  it  was  nearly  hidden  by  trees;  he  looked  at  it  fondly, 
his  heart  yearned  to  it,  for  it  was  to  be  the  future  home 
of  Janey  and  himself. 

"  Hello!  who's  there?  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr 
Taylor." 

The  speaker  was  Doctor  Brown.  I  [e  had  come  swiftly 
upon  Charles  Taylor,  turning  from  the  corner  around 
the  maple  trees;  that  he  had  been  to  see  the  sick  was 
certain,  but  Charles  had  not  heard  of  any  one  being  sick 


23 


in  that  direction.  "  Neither  had  I,"  said  the  doctor,  in 
answ  er  to  the  remark,  "  until  I  was  sent  for  an  hour  ago 
in  haste.  A  thought  crossed  Charlie's  mind,  "  Not  a 
case  of  fever,  I  hope."  "No;  I  think  that's  leaving 
us.  There's  been  an  accident  to  the  parson's  wife — at 
least  what  might  have  been  an  accident,  I  should 
rather  say,"  added  the  doctor,  correcting  himself; 
"  the  injury  is  so  slight  as  not  to  be  worth  the  name  of 
one."  "  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked  Charles  Tay- 
lor. "  She  managed  to  set  her  sleeve  on  fire.  A  mus- 
lin, falling  over  the  merino  sleeve  of  her  gown,  in 
standing  near  a  candle,  the  flame  caught  it;  but  just 
look  at  her  presence  of  mind!  Instead  of  wasting 
time  running  through  the  house  from  top  to  bottom, 
as  most  of  them  would  have  done,  she  instantly  threw 
herself  down  on  the  rug  and  rolled  herself  into  it. 
She's  the  kind  of  a  woman  to  go  through  life."  "  Is 
she  much  burnt?  "  "  No;  many  a  child  gets  more  burnt 
a  dozen  times  in  its  first  dozen  years.  The  arm,  between 
the  elbow  and  wrist,  is  a  little  scorched;  it's  nothing; 
they  need  not  have  sent  for  me;  a  drop  of  cold  water 
applied  will  take  out  all  the  fire.  Your  sister  Martha 
was  much  more  frightened  than  she  was."  "  I'm  really 
glad  it's  no  worse,"  said  Charles  Taylor.  "  I  feared  the 
fever  might  have  broken  out  again."  "That  is  taking 
its  departure,  I  think,  and  the  sooner  it's  gone  the  better; 
it  has  been  capricious  as  a  coquette's  smiles;  it  is  strange 
that  in  many  houses  it  should  have  attacked  only  one 


24 


inmate  and  spared  the  rest."  "What  do  you  think, 
now,  of  Mary  Ann  Brewster  ?  "  The  doctor  shook  his 
head,  and  his  voice  grew  insensibly  low.  "  In  my 
opinion,  she  is  sinking  fast.  I  found  her  worse  this 
afternoon,  weaker  than  she  has  been  at  all;  her  mother 
thought  that  if  she  could  get  her  to  Newtown  she 
might  improve;  but  the  removal  would  kill  her;  she 
would  die  on  the  road.  It  will  be  a  terrible  blow  to  her 
mother  if  it  does  come;  and,  though  it  may  be  harsh  to 
say  it,  a  retort  upon  her  selfishness.  Did  you  hear  that 
she  used  to  make  Janey  head  nurse  while  the  fever  was 
upon  her  ?  "  "  No,"  exclaimed  Charles  Taylor.  "  They 
did,  though;  Mrs.  Brewster  let  it  out  to-day  uninten- 
tionally. Dear  girl!  if  she  had  caught  it,  I  should  never 
have  forgiven  her  mother,  whatever  you  may  have 
done.  1  have  a  few  more  visits  to  make  now  before 
bedtime.    Good-night! " 

"  Worse!"  exclaimed  Charles,  as  he  walked  on,  "  poor 
Mary  Ann,  but  I  wonder  " — he  hestitated  as  the  thought 
struck  him  whether  if  the  worse  should  come,  as  the 
doctor  seems  to  anticipate,  if  it  would  delay  Janey's  mar- 
riage, what  with  one  delay  and  another.  He  walked  on 
to  the  parson's  house  where  he  found  Mrs.  Davis,  play- 
ing the  invalid,  lying  on  a  sofa,  her  auburn  hair  was  dis- 
heveled, her  checkfl  flushed;  the  burnt  arm,  her  muslin 
sleeve  pinned  up,  was  stretched  out  on  a  cushion,  a 
pocket  handkerchief,  saturated  with  water,  resting 
lightly  on  the  burns,  a  basin  of  water  stood  near  with 


25 


another  handkerchief  in  it,  and  the  maid  was  near  to  ex- 
change the  handkerchiefs  as  might  be  required.  Charles 
Taylor  drew  his  chair  near  to  Mrs.  Davis  and  listened  to 
the  account  of  the  accident,  giving  her  his  full  sympathy, 
for  it  might  have  been  a  bad  one.  "  You  must  possess 
great  presence  of  mind,"  he  observed.  "  I  think  your 
showing  it,  as  you  have  done  in  this  instance,  has  won 
the  doctor's  heart."  Mrs.  Davis  smiled.  "  I  believe  I 
do  possess  presence  of  mind;  once  we  were  riding  out 
with  some  friends  in  a  carriage  when  the  horses  took 
fright,  ran  away,  and  nearly  tore  the  carriage  to  pieces; 
while  all  were  frightened  in  a  fearful  manner  I  remained 
calm  and  cool."  "  It  is  a  good  thing  for  you,"  he  ob- 
served. "  I  suppose  it  is;  better  at  any  rate  than  to  go 
mad  with  fear,  as  some  do.  Martha  has  had  enough 
fright  to  last  her  for  a  year."  "  What  were  you  doing, 
Martha?"  asked  her  brother.  "I  was  present  but  I  did 
not  see  it,"  replied  Martha;  "it  occurred  in  her  room, 
and  I  was  in  the  hall  looking  out  of  the  window  with 
my  back  to  her;  the  first  I  knew  or  saw,  Mrs.  Davis 
was  lying  on  the  floor  with  the  rug  rolled  around  her." 
Tea  was  brought  in  and  Mrs.  Davis  insisted  that  they 
should  remain  to  it.  Charles  pleaded  an  engagement 
but  she  would  not  listen ;  they  could  not  have  the  heart 
to  leave  her  alone,  so  Charles,  the  very  essence  of  good 
feeling  and  politeness,  remained.  Tea  having  been  over, 
Martha  went  upstairs  to  get  her  wraps.  Mrs.  Davis 
turned  her  head  as  the  door  was  closed  and  then  spoke 


26 


abruptly:  "I  am  glad  that  Mr.  Davis  was  not  here,  he 
would  have  magnified  it  into  something  formidable,  and 
I  should  not  have  been  let  stir  for  a  month."  The  door 
opened,  Martha  appeared,  they  wished  Mrs.  Davis 
"  good  night,"  a  speedy  cure  from  her  burns,  and  de- 
parted, Charles,  taking  the  straight  path  this  time,  which 
did  not  lead  them  near  the  maple  trees.  "  How  quaint 
old  Doctor  Brown  is,"  said  Martha,  as  they  walked  along; 
"  when  he  had  looked  at  Mrs.  Davis'  arm  he  made  a 
great  parade  of  getting  out  his  glasses  and  putting  them 
on,  and  looking  again." 

"  What  do  you  call  it,  a  burn?"  he  asked  her.  "  It  is 
a  burn,  is  it  not,"  she  answered,  looking  at  him.  "  No," 
said  he,  c;  its  nothing  but  a  singe,"  it  made  her  laugh 
heartily.  I  guess  she  was  pleased  to  have  escaped  with 
such  Blight  damage."  "  That  is  just  like  Doctor  Brown," 
said  Charles. 

Having  arrived  at  home,  Miss  Taylor  was  in  the  same 
place  knitting  still;  it  was  half  past  ten,  too  late  for 
Charles  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Brewster.  "  Mary,  I  fear 
you  have  waited  tea  for  us,"  said  Martha.  "  To  be  sure 
c  hild,  I  expected  you  home  to  it." 

Martha  explained  why  she  did  not  come,  telling  of  the 
accident  to  Mrs.  Davis.  "  Ah,  careless!  careless!  care- 
less! she  might  have  been  burned  to  death,"  said  Mary, 
lifting  her  hands.  "  She  would  have  been  much  more 
burnt  had  it  not  been  for  her  presence  of  mind,"  said 
Charles  slowly.    Miss  Taylor  laid  down  her  knitting  and 


27 


approached  the  tea-table,  none  must  preside  at  the  meals 
but  herself.  She  inquired  of  Charles  whether  he  was 
going  out  again.  "  I  think  not,"  he  replied  indecisively, 
"  I  should  like  to  have  gone  though,  the  doctor  tells  me 
Mary  Ann  Brewster  is  worse."  "  Weaker  I  conclude," 
said  Mary.  "  Weaker  than  she  has  been  at  all,  he  thinks 
there  is  no  hope  for  her  now.  No,  I  will  not  disturb 
them,"  he  positively  added,  "  it  would  be  nearly  twelve 
by  the  time  I  reached  there." 


Chapter  III. 


CHARLES  TAYLOR  RECEIVES  A  MESSAGE. 

<4II  7hat  a  loud  ring,"  exclaimed  Mary  Taylor,  as  the 
bell,  pulled  with  no  gentle  hand,  echoed  and 
echoed  through  the  house;  "  should  it  be  cousin  George 
come  home,  he  thinks  he  will  let  us  know  who  is  there." 
It  was  not  George.  A  servant  entered  the  room  with  a 
telegram,  "  the  man  is  waiting,  sir,"  he  said,  holding  out 
the  paper  for  Charles  to  sign.  Charles  affixed  his  sig- 
nature and  took  up  the  dispatch;  it  came  from  Water- 
ville,  Mary  laid  her  hand  upon  it  ere  it  was  open,  her 
face  looked  ghastly  pale.  "  A  moment  of  preparation," 
she  said.  "  Now,  Mary,  do  not  anticipate  evil,  it  may 
not  be  ill  news  at  all."  He  glanced  his  eye  rapidly  and 
privately  over  it  while  Martha  came  and  stood  near  with 
a  stifled  sob,  then  he  held  it  out  to  Mary,  reading  it  aloud 
at  the  same  time,  "  Mrs.  Bangs  to  Charles  Taylor,  come 
at  once  to  Waterville,  Mr.  Hangs  wishes  to  see  you." 
Mary,  her  extreme  fears  having  been  relieved,  took 
refuge  in  displeasure.  "What  does  Mrs.  Bangs  mean 
by  sending  a  vague  message  like  that?  "she  littered. 

2* 


29 


"  Is  Mr.  Bangs  worse,  is  he  sick,  is  he  in  danger  or 
has  the  summons  not  reference  at  all  to  his  state  of 
health  ?"  Charles  had  taken  it  in  his  hand  again  and 
was  studying  the  words — as  we  are  all  apt  to  do  when 
in  uncertainty. 

He  could  make  no  more  out  of  them.  "  Mrs.  Bangs 
might  have  been  more  explicit,"  he  resumed.  "  She  has 
no  right  to  play  upon  our  fears,"  said  Mary.  "  Well,  what 
are  you  going  to  do?"  inquired  Mary  of  her  brother. 
"I  will  do  as  the  dispatch  desires  me,  go  at  once,  which 
will  be  at  midnight."  "  Give  it  to  me  again,"  said  Mary. 
He  put  the  dispatch  into  her  hand,  and  she  sat  down 
with  it,  apparently  studying  its  every  word.  "Vague! 
Vague!  Can  anything  be  possibly  more  vague,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  It  leaves  us  utterly  in  doubt  of  her  motive 
for  sending,  she  must  have  done  it  on  purpose  to  try  our 
feelings."  "  She  has  done  it  in  carelessness,  carelessness," 
surmised  Charles.  "  Which  is  as  reprehensible  as  the 
other,"  severely  answered  Mary.  "  Charles,  when  you 
get  there,  should  you  find  him  dangerously  ill  dispatch 
to  us  at  once."'  "  I  should  be  sure  to  do  so,"  was  his 
answer.  "  Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Mary,  for  he 
was  preparing  to  go  out.  "  As  far  as  Mrs.  Brewster's." 
Leaving  the  warm  room  for  the  street,  the  night  air 
seemed  to  strike  upon  him  with  a  chill  which  he  had  not 
experienced  when  he  went  out  previously,  and  he  re- 
turned and  put  on  his  overcoat.  He  could  not  leave 
before  2  o'clock,  unless  he  had  engaged  a  special  train, 


3o 


which  the  circumstances  did  not  appear  to  call  for.  At 
2  o'clock  a  mail  train  passed  through  the  place,  stop- 
ping at  all  stations,  and  on  that  he  concluded  to  go.  He 
walked  briskly  along  the  path,  his  thoughts  running  upon 
many  things,  but  chiefly  on  the  unsatisfactory  dispatch, 
very  unsatisfactory  he  felt  it  to  be,  and  a  vague  fear 
crossed  his  mind  that  his  friend  and  partner  might  be  in 
danger,  looking  at  it  from  a  sober  point  of  view  his 
judgment  said  "no,"  but  we  cannot  always  look  at  sus- 
pense soberly,  neither  could  Charles  Taylor. 

Before  reaching  Madam  Brewster's  on  the  walk  that 
Charles  had  taken,  you  pass  the  church  and  residence  of 
Parson  Davis.  Nature  had  not  intended  Mr.  Davis  for 
a  pastor,  and  his  sermons  were  the  bane  of  his  life;  an 
excellent  man,  a  most  efficient  pastor  for  a  village,  a 
gentleman,  a  scholar,  abounding  in  good,  practical  sense, 
but  not  a  preacher;  sometimes  he  wrote  sermons,  some- 
times he  tried  them  without  the  book,  but  let  him  do 
as  he  would,  there  was  always  a  conviction  of  failure  as 
to  his  sermons  winning  their  way  to  his  hearers  hearts, 
lie  was  of  medium  height,  keen  features,  black  hair, 
mingled  with  gray.  The  house  was  built  of  white  stone 
and  was  a  commodious  residence;  some  of  the  rooms  had 
been  added  to  the  house  of  late  years.  Mrs.  Davis' 
room  was  very  pleasant  to  sit  in  on  a  summer's  day 
when  the  grass  was  green  and  the  many  colored  flowers 
with  their  gay  brightness  and  their  perfume  gladdened 
the  senses,  and  the  birds  were  singing  and  the  bees  and 


3i 


butterflies  sporting.  Mrs.  Davis  was  a  lady-like  woman 
of  middle  height  and  fair  complexion,  she  was  remark- 
ably susceptible  to  surrounding  influences,  seasons  and 
weather  held  much  power  over  her.  A  dark  figure 
was  leaning  over  the  gate  of  Parson  Davis,  shaded  by 
the  dark  trees,  but  though  the  features  of  the  face  were 
obscure,  the  outline  of  the  clerical  hat  was  visible,  and 
by  that  Mr.  Davis  was  known.  Charles  Taylor  stopped : 
"  You  are  going  this  way  late  "  said  the  parson.  "  It  is 
late  for  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Brewster's,  but  I  wish  particularly 
to  see  them."  "  I  have  just  returned  from  there,"  said 
Mr.  Davis.  "  Mary  Ann  grows  weaker,  I  hear."  "  Yes, 
I  have  been  holding  prayer  with  her."  Charles  Taylor 
felt  shocked.  "  Is  she  so  near  death  as  that,"  he  in- 
quired in  a  hushed  tone.  "  So  near  death  as  that "  re- 
peated Mr.  Davis  in  an  accent  of  reproof.  "  I  did  not 
expect  to  hear  such  a  remark  from  you,  Mr.  Taylor;  my 
friend,  is  it  only  when  death  is  near  that  we  are  to  pray?" 
"  It  is  mostly  when  death  is  near  that  prayers  are  held 
over  us,"  replied  Charles  Taylor.  "  True,  for  those  who 
have  known  when  and  how  to  pray  for  themselves ;  look 
at  that  girl  passing  away  from  among  us,  with  all  her 
worldly  thoughts,  her  selfish  habits,  her  evil,  peevish 
temper,  but  God's  ways  are  not  like  our  ways;  we  might 
be  tempted  to  ask  why  such  as  these  are  removed,  such 
as  Janey  left,  the  one  child  as  near  akin  to  an  angel  as  it 
is  possible  to  be  here;  the  other,  in  our  blind  judgment, 
we  may  wonder  that  she,  most  ripe  for  heaven,  should 


not  be  taken  to  it,  and  the  other  one  left  to  be  pruned 
and  dug  around,  to  have,  in  short,  a  chance  given  her  of 
making  herself  better."  "  Is  she  so  very  sick?"  "I 
think  her  so,  as  well  as  the  doctor,  it  was  what  he  said 
that  sent  me  up;  her  frame  of  mind  is  not  a  desirable 
one,  and  I  have  been  doing  my  best;  I  shall  be  with  her 
again  to-morrow."  He  continued  his  wav  and  Mr.  Davis 
looked  after  him  until  his  form  disappeared  in  the 
shadows  cast  by  the  roadside  trees.  The  clock  was 
striking  twelve  when  Charles  Taylor  opened  the  iron 
gate  that  led  to  Mrs.  Brewster's  house;  the  house,  with 
the  exception  of  one  window  looked  dark,  even  the  hall 
lamp  was  out  and  he  was  afraid  that  all  had  retired. 
From  that  window  a  dull  light  shone  behind  the  blind;  a 
stationary  light  it  had  been  of  late,  to  be  seen  by  any 
wayfarer  all  night  long  for  it  came  from  the  sick  girl's 
room.    A  rap  upon  the  door  brought  Eliza. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise  of  seeing  him  so 
late,  u  I  think  Miss  Janey  has  gone  to  bed."  Mrs.  Brews- 
ter came  running  down  the  stairs  as  he  stepped  into  the 
hall;  she  also  was  surprised  at  his  late  visit.  "I  would 
not  have  disturbed  you,  but  I  am  about  to  depart  for 
Waterville,"  he  explained.  "  A  telegram  has  arrived 
from  Mrs.  Bangs,  calling  me  there.  I  should  like  to  see 
Janey  before  I  go.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  may  be 
gone."  "  I  sent  Janey  to  her  bed,  her  head  ached,"  said 
Mrs.  Brewster,  "  she  has  not  been  up  very  long.  Oh, 
Mr.  Taylor,  this  has  been  such  a  d;uy  of  grief,  heads  and 


33 


and  hearts  alike  aching."  Charles  Taylor  entered  the 
drawing-room,  and  Mrs.  Brewster  proceeded  to  her 
daughter's  chamber;  softly  opening  the  door,  she  looked 
in.  Janey,  undisturbed  by  the  noise  of  his  visit,  for  she 
had  not  supposed  it  to  be  a  visit  relating  to  her,  was 
kneeling  down  by  the  bed  saying  her  prayers,  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  and  the  light  from  the  candle  shin- 
ing on  her  smooth  hair.  A  minute  or  so  her  mother  re- 
mained silent,  and  then  Janey  arose ;  she  had  not  begun 
to  undress.  It  was  the  first  intimation  she  had  that  any- 
one was  there,  and  she  recoiled  with  surprise.  "  Mamma, 
how  you  scared  me!  Mary  Ann  is  not  worse?"  "She 
can't  well  be  worse  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  Mr. 
TajTlor  is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  wishes  to  see  you." 
She  went  down  at  once.  Mrs.  Brewster  did  not  go 
with  her,  but  went  into  her  sick  daughter's  room.  The 
fire  in  the  drawing-room  was  low,  and  Eliza  had  been 
in  to  stir  it  up.  Charles  stood  before  it  with  Janey,  tell- 
ing her  of  his  unexpected  journey.  The  red  embers 
threw  a  glow  upon  her  face,  her  brow  looked  heavy, 
her  eyes  swollen.  He  saw  the  signs,  and  laid  his  hand 
fondly  on  her  head.  "  What  has  given  you  the  head- 
ache, Janey?"  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  It  does 
ache  very  much,"  she  answered.  "  Has  crying  caused 
it?"  "Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  is  of  no  use  to  deny  it,  for 
you  could  have  seen  it  by  my  swollen  eyelids.  I 
have  wept  to-day  until  it  seems  I  can  weep  no 
longer,  and  it  has  made  my  eyes  ache  and  my  heart 


34 


dull  and  heavy."  "  But,  my  dear,  you  should  not 
give  way  to  this  grief;  it  may  render  you  seriously 
ill."  "  Oh,  Charles,  how  can  I  help  it,"  she  replied  with 
emotion,  as  the  tears  rolled  swiftly  down  her  cheeks. 

"  We  begin  to  see  that  there  is  no  hope  of  Mary 
Ann's  recovery;  the  doctor  told  mamma  so  to-day,  and 
he  sent  over  Mr.  Davis."  "Will  grieving  alter  it?" 
Janey  wept  silently;  there  was  full  and  complete  confi- 
dence between  her  and  Charles. Taylor.  She  could  tell 
him  all  her  thoughts,  her  troubles,  as  she  could  a  mother 
if  she  had  one  that  loved  her.  "  If  she  was  more  ready 
to  go,  the  pain  would  seem  less,"  breathed  Janey.  "  That 
is,  we  might  feel  more  reconciled  to  losing  her,  but  you 
know  how  she  is,  Charles,  when  I  have  tried  to  talk  to 
her  about  Heaven,  she  would  not  listen.  She  said  it 
made  her  dull;  it  gave  her  the  horrors.  How  can  she, 
who  has  never  thought  of  God,  be  fit  to  meet  him?" 
Janey's  tears  were  deepening  into  sobs.  Charles  Tay- 
lor thought  of  w  hat  the  minister  had  said  to  him.  His 
hand  still  rested  on  the  head  of  Janey.  "  You  are  fit  to 
meet  him,"  he  exclaimed,  sadly.  "Janey,  what  makes 
such  a  difference  between  you,  you  are  sisters,  raised  in 
the  same  home?  "  "  I  do  not  know,"  said  Janey,  slowly, 
*l  I  have  alw  ays  thought  a  great  deal  about  Heaven  ever 
since  I  first  went  to  Sunday-school."  "  And  why  not 
Mary  Ann?  "  "She  would  not  go;  she  liked  halls,  par- 
ties and  suc  h  like."  Charles  smiled;  the  words  were  so 
simple  and  natural.    "  Had  the  summons  gone  forth  for 


35 


you  instead  of  her,  it  would  have  brought  you  no  dis- 
may? "  "  Only  that  I  must  leave  all  of  my  friends  behind 
me,"  she  answered,  looking  up  at  him,  a  bright  smile  shin- 
ing through  her  tears.  "  I  should  know  that  God  would 
not  take  me  unless  it  was  for  the  best.  Oh,  Charles,  if  we 
could  only  save  her!  "  "  Child,  you  contradict  yourself. 
If  what  God  does  must  be  for  the  best,  you  should  rec- 
oncile yourself  to  parting  writh  Mary  Ann."  "  Yes," 
hesitated  Janey,  "  but  I  fear  she  has  never  thought  of  it 
herself  or  in  any  way  prepared  for  it."  "  Do  you  know 
that  I  am  going  to  find  fault  with  you,  Janey?"  he  added, 
after  a  pause.  She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  in  com- 
plete surprise,  the  tears  drying  up.  "  Did  you  not  prom- 
ise me — did  you  not  promise  the  doctor  that  you  would 
not  enter  your  sister's  chamber  while  the  fever  was  upon 
her?  "  The  hot  color  flashed  into  her  face.  "  Forgive 
me,  Charles,"  she  whispered,  "I  could  not  help  myself; 
Mary  Ann,  on  the  fifth  morning  of  her  illness,  began  to 
cry  for  me  very  much,  and  mamma  came  to  my  room 
and  asked  me  to  go  to  her.  I  told  her  that  the  doctor 
had  forbidden  me  and  that  I  had  promised  you;  it  made 
her  angry;  she  took  me  by  the  arm  and  pulled  me  in." 
Charles  stood  looking  at  her;  there  was  nothing  to  an- 
swer. He  had  known  in  his  deep  and  trusting  love  that 
it  was  no  fault  of  Janey's.  Thinking  he  was  vexed,  she 
answered,  "  You  know,  Charles,  so  long  as  I  am  here  in 
mamma's  home,  her  child,  it  is  to  her  that  I  owe  obedi- 
ence ;  as  soon  as  I  am  your  wife  I  shall  owe  it  and  give 


36 


it  to  you."  "  You  are  right,  my  darling."  "  And  it  has 
been  productive  of  no  ill  consequences,"  she  said.  "  I 
did  not  catch  the  fever;  had  I  found  myself  growing  the 
least  sick,  I  should  have  sent  for  you  and  told  you 
all."  "Janey,"  he  cried,  "had  you  caught  the  fever  I 
should  never  have  forgiven  those  who  led  you  into  the 
danger." 

"  Listen,"  said  Janey,  "  mamma  is  calling."  Mrs. 
Brewster  had  been  calling  to  Mr.  Taylor.  Thinking  that 
she  was  not  heard  she  came  dowrn  the  stairs  and  entered 
the  room  wringing  her  hands;  her  eyes  were  moist,  her 
sharp  thin  red  nose  was  redder  then  ever.  "  Oh,  dear, 
I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with  her,"  she  sobbed. 
"  She  is  so  sick  and  fretful,  Mr.  Taylor,  nothing  will  sat- 
isfy her  now  but  she  must  see  you."  "  See  me,"  repeated 
he.  "  She  will,"  she  says.  "  I  told  her  you  was  leav- 
ing for  Waterville  and  she  burst  out  crying  and  said  if 
she  was  to  die  she  would  never  see  you  again,  do  you 
mind  going  in,  you  are  not  afraid?"  "No,  I  am  not 
afraid,"  said  Charles,  "  the  infection  can  not  have  re- 
mained all  this  while,  and  if  it  had  I  should  not  fear  it." 
Mrs.  Brewster  led  the  way  upstairs,  Charles  followed 
her,  Janey  came  in  afterwards.  Mary  Ann  lay  in  bed, 
her  thin  face,  drawn  and  white,  raised  upon  the  pillow, 
her  hollow  eyes  were  strained  forward  with  a  fixed  look. 
SiCk  as  he  had  thought  her  to  have  been  he  was  hardly 
prepared  to  see  her  like  this;  and  it  shocked  him.  "  Why 
have  you  never  come  to  sec  me?"  she  asked  in  a  hollow 


37 


voice  as  he  approached  and  leaned  over  her,  "  you 
would  never  have  come  till  I  died,  you  only  care  for 
Janey."  "  I  would  have  come  to  see  you  had  I  known 
you  wished  it,"  he  answered,  "  but  you  do  not  look 
strong  enough  to  receive  visitors."  "  They  might  cure 
me  if  they  wrould,"  she  said,  her  breath  panting,  "  I  want 
to  go  away  somewhere  and  that  BrowTn  won't  let  me;  if 
it  were  Janey  he  would  cure  her."  "  He  will  let  you  go 
as  soon  as  your  are  able,"  said  Charles.  "  Why  did  this 
fever  come  to  me,  W'hy  didn't  it  go  to  Janey  instead,  she 
is  strong  and  would  have  got  well  in  no  time,  that  is  not 
fair."  "My  dear  child  you  must  not  excite  yourself,"  im- 
plored her  mother.  "  I  will  speak,"  cried  Mary  Ann  with 
a  touch,  feeble  though  it  was,  of  her  peevish  vehemence. 
"  Nobody's  thought  of  but  Janey,  if  you  had  your  way," 
looking  hard  at  Mr.  Taylor,  "  she  would  not  have  been 
allowed  to  come  near  me,  no,  not  if  I  had  died."  She 
altered  into  whimpering  tears,  her  mother  whispered 
to  him  to  leave  the  room,  it  wrould  not  do,  this  excite- 
ment. "  I  wrill  come  and  see  you  again  wrhen  you  are 
better,"  he  soothingly  whispered.  "  No,  you  won't," 
said  Mary  An>n,  and  I  shall  be  dead  when  you  return, 
good-by,  Charles  Taylor."  These  last  words  were  called 
after  him  as  he  left  the  room,  her  mother  went  with  him 
to  the  door,  her  eyes  full,  "  you  see  there  is  no  hope  of 
her,"  she  wailed.  Charles  did  not  think  there  was,  it 
appeared  to  him  that  in  a  few  hours,  hope  for  Mary  Ann 
would  be  over.    Janey  waited  for  him  in  the  hall  and 


38 


was  leading  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  but  he  told 
her  that  he  could  not  stay  longer  and  opened  the  door. 
"  I  wish  you  were  not  going  away,"  she  said,  her  spirits 
being  very  unequal  caused  her  to  see  things  with  a 
gloomy  eye.  "  I  wish  you  were  going  with  me,"  said 
he,  "  don't  cry,  I  shall  soon  be  back  again."  "  Every- 
thing makes  me  cry  to-night,  you  might  not  get  back 
until  the  worst  is  over,  oh,  if  she  could  be  saved."  He 
held  her  face  close  to  him  and  took  from  it  his  farewell 
kiss.  "  God  bless  you,  my  darling,  forever."  "  May  he 
bless  you  Charles,"  she  said,  with  streaming  eyes  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  his  kiss  was  returned,  then 
they  parted. 


Chapter  IV. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  DEATH. 

/^harles  having  reached  the  station,  taken  the  train 
to  Waterville  in  response  to  the  telegram,  and 
when  he  reached  there  taken  a  carriage  and  was  driven 
to  the  residence  of  Marshall  Bangs,  he  found  the  decay- 
ing invalid  sitting  on  a  sofa  in  his  bed-room;  he  had  just 
recovered  from  a  fainting  spell,  and  he  had  recovered 
only  to  be  the  more  weak.  He  was  standing  on  the 
lawn  before  his  house  talking  with  a  friend  when  he 
suddenly  fell  to  the  ground.  He  did  not  recover  con- 
sciousness until  evening,  and  nearly  the  first  wish  he 
expressed  was  a  desire  to  see  his  friend  and  partner, 
Charles  Taylor.  "  Dispatch  for  him  "  he  said  to  his  wife. 
Mrs.  Bangs  had  a  horror  for  fevers,  especially  when  they 
were  confined  to  everybody;  at  the  present  time  she 
considered  herself  out  of  the  reach  of  it,  and  no  amount 
of  persuasion  could  induce  her  to  return,  but  her  husband 
had  grown  tired  and  restless  and  was  determined  to  go 
home,  but  let  her  remain  until  the  fever  had  taken  its 
departure,  hence  the  dispatch.    On  the  second  day  he 

39 


4° 


was  well  enough  to  converse  with  Charles  on  business 
affairs,  and  that  over,  he  expressed  the  wish  that  Charles 
would  take  him  home.  Charles  mentioned  it  to  Mrs. 
Bangs;  it  did  not  meet  her  approbation.  "You  should 
have  opposed  it  entirely,"  she  said,  in  a  firm  tone. 
"  But  why  so,  Mrs.  Bangs,  if  he  desires  to  return,  I  think 
he  should."  "  Not  while  the  fever  lingers  there ;  were  he 
to  take  it  and  die  I  should  never  forgive  myself." 
Charles  had  no  fear  of  the  fever  for  himself,  and  did  not 
fear  it  for  his  friend;  he  intimated  as  much,  "it  is  not 
the  fever  that  will  hurt  him,  Mrs.  Bangs."  "  You  have 
no  right  to  say  that.  Mrs.  Brewster,  a  month  ago,  would 
have  said  that  she  did  not  fear  it  for  Mary  Ann,  and  now 
she  is  dying,  or  dead,  you  confess  you  did  not  think  that 
she  could  last  more  than  a  day  or  two  when  you  left." 
"  I  ce  rtainly  did  not,"  said  Charles.  "  She  looked  fear- 
fully ill  and  emaciated,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
Mr.  Bangs."  "  I  cannot  conceive  how  you  could  be  so 
imprudent  as  to  venture  into  her  sick-room,"  cried  Mrs. 
Bangs,  "  indeed  that  you  went  to  the  house  at  all  while 
the  fever  was  in  it."  "  There  could  be  no  risk  in  my 
going  into  her  room,  nothing  is  the  matter  with  her  now 
but  debility."  "  We  cannot  tell,  Mr.  Taylor,  when  risk 
ends  or  when  it  begins;  had  not  so  many  hours  elapsed 
before  you  came  here  I  should  feel  afraid  of  you." 
Charles  smiled.  lint  he  wished  he  had  said  nothing  of 
his  visit  to  the  sick-room,  for  he  was  one  of  those  who 
observe  strict  consideration  for  the  feelings  and  prejudices 


41 


of  others;  there  was  no  help  for  it  now.  "  It  is  not  I 
that  shall  be  returning  to  Bellville  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Bangs, 
"  the  sickly  old  place  must  give  proof  of  its  renewed 
health  first ;  you  will  not  get  either  me  nor  Mr.  Bangs  there 
for  quite  a  while." 

"  What  does  the  doctor  think  of  the  fever,  that  it  will 
linger  long?"  "  On  the  night  I  came  away  he  told  me  he 
believed  it  was  going  at  last.  I  hope  he  will  prove  right." 

Charles  Taylor  spoke  to  his  partner  of  his  marriage 
arrangements.  He  had  received  a  letter  from  Mary 
the  morning  after  he  left,  in  which  she  agreed  to  the  pro- 
posal that  Janey  should  be  her  temporary  guest.  This 
removed  all  barriers  to  the  immediate  union.  "  But, 
Charles,  suppose  Mary  Ann  should  die,"  observed  Mr. 
Bangs.  This  conversation  was  taking  place  on  the  day 
previous  to  their  leaving  Waterville,  where  Charles  had 
now  been  three  days.  "  In  that  case,  I  suppose  it  will 
have  to  be  postponed,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  hope  for  bet- 
ter news.  That  she  is  not  dead  yet  is  certain,  or  they 
would  have  written  to  me,  and  in  such  cases,  if  a  patient 
can  pull  through  the  first  debility,  recovery  may  be  pos- 
sible." "  Have  you  heard  from  Janey?"  "  No.  I  have 
written  to  her  twice,  but  in  each  letter  I  told  her  I  would 
soon  be  home;  therefore,  most  likely  she  did  not  write, 
thinking  it  would  miss  me.  Had  the  worst  happened, 
they  would  have  written  to  me  at  all  events."  "  So  you 
will  marry  soon,  if  she  lives?"  "  Very  soon."  "I  hope 
that  God  will  bless  you  both,"  cried  the  invalid.    "  She 


42 


will  be  a  wife  in  a  thousand."  Charles  thought  she 
would,  but  did  not  say  so.  "  I  wish  I  had  never  left 
Bellville,"  he  said,  turning  his  haggard,  but  still  fine  blue 
eves  upon  his  friend.  Charles  was  silent.  None  had 
regretted  the  departure  more  than  he.  "  I  wish  I  could 
go  back  to  it  to  die."  "  My  dear  friend,  I  hope  you  may 
live  many  years  to  bless  us.  If  you  can  get  through 
the  winter,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not,  with 
care,  you  may  regain  your  strength  and  be  as  well  as 
ever."  The  invalid  shook  his  head.  "It  will  never  be." 
While  they  were  thus  engaged  a  servant  called  Charles 
from  the  room.  A  telegram  had  arrived  for  him  at  the 
station,  and  a  boy  had  brought  it  over.  A  conviction  of 
what  it  contained  flashed  over  Charles  Taylor's  heart  as 
he  opened  it;  the  death  of  Mary  Ann  Brewster.  From 
Mrs.  Brewster  it  proved  to  be,  not  much  more  satisfac- 
tory than  Mrs.  Bangs,  for  if  hers  was  unexplanatory  this 
was  incoherent.  "  The  breath  has  just  left  my  daugh- 
ter's body.  Mrs.  Brewster."  Charles  returned  to  the 
room,  his  mind  full;  in  the  midst  of  his  sorrow  and  re- 
gret for  Mary  Ann,  his  compassion  for  her  mother,  and 
he  did  really  feel  sorry,  intruded  the  thoughts  of  his 
marriage;  it  must  be  postponed  now.  "What  did  he 
want  with  you,"  asked  Mr.  Bangs  when  Charles  returned 
to  him.'  "  lie  brought  me  a  telegram  from  Bellville." 
u  A  business  message?"  "  No,  sir;  from  Mrs.  Brewster." 
By  the  tone  of  his  voice,  by  the  falling  of  his  counte- 
nance, he  could  read  what  had  occurred,  but  he  kept 


43 


silent,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  "  Poor  Mary  Ann  is 
gone."  "  It  will  make  a  delay  in  your  plans,  Charles," 
said  Mr.  Bangs  sorrowfully,  after  some  minutes  had  been 
given  to  expressions  of  regret.  "  It  will,  sir."  The  in- 
valid leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  shall  not  be  long  after  her,  I  feel  that  I  shall  not." 

Very  early  indeed  did  they  start  in  the  morning,  long 
before  daybreak.  They  would  reach  Bellville  at  twelve 
at  night,  all  things  being  well;  a  weary  day,  a  long  one 
at  any  rate,  and  the  train  steamed  into  Bellville.  The 
clock  was  striking  twelve.  Mr.  Bangs'  carriage  stood 
waiting.  A  few  minutes  was  spent  in  collecting  baggage. 
"  Shall  I  give  you  a  seat  as  far  as  the  bank,  Mr.  Taylor?" 
inquired  Mr.  Bangs.  "Thank  you;  no  I  shall  just  go 
for  a  minute's  call  on  Mrs.  Brewster."  Mr.  Davis  who 
was  in  the  station  getting  mail  heard  the  words,  he 
turned  hastily,  caught  Charles  by  the  hand  and  drew 
him  aside.  "  Are  you  aware  of  what  has  happened?" 
"  Yes,"  replied  Charles,  "  Mrs.  Brewster  telegraphed  to 
me  last  night."  Mr.  Davis  pressed  his  hand  and  moved 
on,  Charles  taking  the  road  that  would  lead  him  to 
Mrs.  Brewster's  house.  It  is  now  ten  days  since  he  was 
there,  the  house  looked  precisely  as  it  did  then,  all  in 
darkness,  except  the  dull  light  that  burned  from  Mary 
Ann's  sick  room;  it  burnt  there  still;  then  it  was  light- 
ing the^  living;  now — Charles  Taylor  rang  the  bell 
gently,  does  any  one  like  to  go  with  a  fierce  peal  to  a 
house  where  death  is  an  inmate?  Eliza  opened  the  door 


44 


as  usual  and  burst  into  tears  when  she  saw  who  it  was. 
"  I  said  it  would  bring  you  back,  sir!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Does  Mrs.  Brewster  bear  it  pretty  well,"  he  asked,  as 
she  showed  him  into  the  drawing-room.  "  No,  sir;  not 
over  well,"  sobbed  the  girl.  "  I'll  tell  the  mistress  that 
you  are  here."  He  stood  over  the  fire  as  he  had  done 
before,  it  was  low  now  like  it  was  then,  strangely  still 
seemed  the  house,  he  could  almost  have  told  that  one 
was  lying  dead  in  it,  he  listened  waiting  for  the  step  of 
Janey,  hoping  that  she  would  be  the  first  to  meet  him. 
Eliza  returned.  "  My  mistress  says,  would  you  be  kind 
enough  to  come  to  her."  Charles  followed  her  up- 
stairs, she  went  to  the  room  where  he  had  been  taken 
the  other  time,  Mary  Ann's  room,  in  reality  the  room  of 
Mi  s.  Brewster;  but  it  had  been  given  to  Mary  Ann  for 
her  sickness.  Eliza  with  soft  tread  crossed  the  corridor 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Was  she  going  to  show  him 
into  the  presence  of  the  dead.  He  thought  she  must 
have  mistaken  Mrs.  Brewster's  orders  and  he  hesitated 
on  the  threshhold.  "  Where  is  Miss  Janey,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  Who,  sir;"  "  Miss  Janey,  is  she  well?"  The  girl 
stared  at  him,  flung  the  door  wide  open  and  gave  a  loud 
cry  as  she  flew  down  the  stairs,  lie  looked  after  her  in 
amazement,  had  she  gone  mad, then  he  turned  and  walked 
into  the  room  with  a  hesitating  step.  Mrs.  Brewster 
was  coming  forward  to  meet  him,  she  was  convulsed  with 
grief,  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his  with  a  soothing  ges- 
ture, essaying  a  word  of  comfort,  not  of  inquiry  why  she 


45 


should  have  brought  him  to  this  room,  he  glanced  at  the 
bed  expecting  to  see  the  corpse  upon  it;  but  the  bed  was 
empty  and  at  that  moment  his  eyes  caught  another  sight. 

Seated  by  the  fire  in  an  invalid  chair  surrounded  by 
pillows  covered  with  shawls,  with  a  wan,  attenuated 
face  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  a  glaze  over  them 
was — who?  Mary  Ann?  It  certainly  was  Mary  Ann, 
in  life  yet,  for  she  feebly  held  out  her  hand  in  welcome, 
and  the  tears  suddenly  gushed  from  her  eyes,  "  I  am 
getting  better,  Mr.  Taylor."  Charles  Taylor — how  shall 
I  write  it,  for  one  minute  he  was  blind  to  what  it  could 
all  mean,  his  whole  mind  was  a  chaos  of  astonished  per- 
plexity, and  then  when  the  dreadful  truth  burst  upon 
him  he  staggered  against  the  w^ll  with  a  wailing  cry  of 
agony,  it  was  Janey  who  had  died.  Charles  Taylor 
leaned  against  the  wall  in  his  shock  of  agony;  it  was 
one  of  those  moments  that  can  come  only  once  in  a  life- 
time, in  many  lives  never,  when  the  greatest  of  earthly 
misery  bursts  upon  the  startled  spirit,  shattering  it  for 
all  time.  Were  Charles  Taylor  to  live  a  hundred  years 
he  could  never  know  another  moment  like  this,  the 
power  so  to  feel  wrould  have  left  him.  It  had  not  left 
him  yet;  it  had  scarcely  come  to  him  in  its  full  realiza- 
tion; at  present  he  was  half  stunned.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  the  first  impression  upon  his  mind  was  that 
he  was  so  much  nearer  the  next  world.  How  am  I  to 
define  this  nearness?  It  was  not  that  he  was  nearer  to  it 
by  time  or  in  goodness;  nothing  of  that* 


Chapter  V. 


charles  taylor's  regrets. 

Janey  had  passed  within  its  portals,  and  the  great  gulf 
which  divides  time  from  eternity  seemed  to  be  but 
a  span.  Now,  to  Charles  Taylor,  it  was  as  if  he  in 
spirit  had  followed  her  in  from  being  a  place  far  off. 
Vague,  indefinite,  indistinct,  it  had  suddenly  been 
brought  to  him  close  and  palpable,  or  he  to  it.  Had 
Charles  Taylor  been  an  atheist,  denying  a  hereafter — 
Heaven  in  its  compassion  have  mercy  upon  all  such — 
that  one  moment  of  suffering  would  have  recalled  him  to 
a  sense  of  his  mistake.  It  was  as  if  he  looked  aloft  with 
the  eyes  of  inspiration  and  saw  the  truth;  it  was  as  a 
brief  passing  moment  of  revelation  from  God.  She, 
with  her  loving  spirit,  her  gentle  heart,  her  simple  trust 
in  God,  had  been  taken  from  this  world  to  enter  upon  a 
better.  She  was  as  surely  living  in  it,  had  entered  upon 
its  mysteries,  its  joys,  its  rest  as  that  he  was  living  here. 
She,  he  believed,  was  as  surely  regarding  him  now,  and 
his  great  sorrow  as  that  he  was  left  alone  to  battle  with 
it.    From  this  time  Charles  Taylor  possessed  a  lively. 

46 


47 


ever-present  link  with  that  world,  and  knew  that  its 
gates  would,  in  God's  good  time,  be  open  for  him.  These 
feelings,  impressions,  facts — you  may  designate  them  as 
you  please — took  up  their  places  in  his  mind,  all  in  that 
first  instant,  and  seated  themselves  there  forever;  not 
yet  very  consciously  to  his  stunned  senses.  In  his 
weight  of  bitter  grief  nothing  could  be  to  him  very 
clear;  ideas  passed  through  his  brain  quickly,  confusedly, 
like  unto  the  changing  scenes  in  a  phantasmagoria.  He 
looked  round  as  one  bewildered,  the  bed  smoothed  ready 
for  occupancy,  on  which  on  entering  he  had  expected 
to  see  the  dead,  but  not  her.  There  was  between  him 
and  the  door  Mary  Ann  Brewster,  in  her  invalid  chair 
by  the  fire,  a  table  at  her  right  hand,  covered  with  ad- 
juncts of  the  sick  room,  a  medicine  bottle  with  its  ac- 
companying wine-glass  and  tablespoon,  jelly  and  other 
delicacies  to  tempt  a  faded  appetite. 

Mary  Ann  sat  there  and  gazed  at  him  with  her  hollow 
eyes,  from  which  the  tears  dropped  slowly  on  her  cadav- 
erous cheeks.  Mrs.  Brewster  stood  before  him,  sobs 
choking  her  voice,  wringing  her  hands.  Yes,  both  were 
weeping,  but  he —  It  is  not  in  the  presence  of  others  that 
man  gives  way  to  grief,  neither  will  tears  come  to  him  in 
the  first  leaden  weight  of  anguish.  Charles  Taylor 
listened  mechanically,  as  one  cannot  do  otherwise,  to  the 
explanations  of  Mrs.  Brewster.  "  Why  did  you  not  pre- 
pare me?  why  did  you  let  it  come  upon  me  with  this 
startling  shock?  "  was  his  first  remonstrance.    "  I  did 


48 


prepare  you,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Brewster.  "  I  telegraphed  to 
you  as  soon  as  it  happened;  I  wrote  the  message  to  you 
with  my  own  hand,  and  sent  it  to  the  office  before  I 
turned  my  attention  to  anything  else."  "  I  received  the 
message,  but  you  did  not  say — I  thought  it  was — "  Charles 
Taylor  turned  his  eyes  towrard  Mary  Ann.  He  remem- 
bered her  condition  in  the  midst  of  his  own  anguish  and 
would  not  alarm  her.  "You  did  not  mention  Janey's  name," 
he  continued,  to  Mrs.  Brewster;  "how  could  I  suppose 
you  alluded  to  her  or  that  she  was  sick?  "  Mary  Ann 
divined  his  motive  of  hesitation;  she  wras  uncommonly 
keen  in  penetration,  sharp — as  the  world  goes — as  the 
world  says,  and  she  had  noted  his  words  on  entering,  when 
he  began  to  soothe  Mrs.  Brewster  for  the  loss  of  a  child. 
She  had  noticed  his  startled  recoil  when  the  news  fell  on 
him.  She  spoke  up;  a  touch  of  her  old  vehemence;  the 
tears  stopped  on  her  face  and  her  eyes  glistened.  "  You 
thought  it  was  I  who  had  died!  Yes,  you  did,  Mr.  Tay- 
lor; and  you  need  not  try  to  deny  it;  you  would  not  have 
cared,  so  that  it  was  not  Janey."  Charles  had  no  inten- 
tion of  contradicting  her;  he  turned  from  her  in  silence 
to  look  inquiringly  and  reproachfully  at  her  mother. 
"  Mr.  Taylor,  I  could  not  prepare  you  better  than  I  did," 
said  Mrs.  Brewster,  M  when  I  wrote  the  letter  telling  of 
her  illness."  "  What  letter?  "  interrupted  Charles;  "  I 
received  no  letter."  "  But  you  must  have  received  it," 
replied  Mrs.  Brewster,  in  her  quick  and  sharp  manner, 
not  sharp  with  him,  but  from  a  rising  doubt  whether  the 


49 


letter  had  been  miscarried.  "  I  wrote  it,  and  I  know 
that  it  was  safely  mailed;  you  should  have  received  it 
before  you  did  the  dispatch."  "  I  never  had  it,"  said 
Charles.  "  When  I  waited  in  your  drawing-room  now 
I  was  listening  for  Janey's  footsteps  to  come  to  me." 
Charles  Taylor  upon  inquiry  found  that  the  letter  had 
arrived  duly  and  safely  at  Waterville  at  the  time  men- 
tioned by  Mrs.  Brewster,  but  it  appears  that  it  was  over- 
looked by  the  postmaster;  but  the  shock  had  come  now. 
He  took  a  seat  by  the  table,  and  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  as  the  mother  gave  him  a  detailed  account  of 
her  sickness  and  death.  Not  all  the  account  that  she  or 
anybody  else  could  give  could  take  one  iota  from  the 
dreadful  fact  staring  him  in  the  face ;  she  was  gone,  gone 
forever  from  this  world;  he  could  never  meet  the  glance 
of  her  eyes  again  or  hear  her  voice  in  response  to  his  own. 
Ah!  reader,  there  are  griefs  that  tell,  rending  the 
heart  as  an  earthquake  would  rend  the  earth,  and  all  that 
can  be  done  is  to  sit  down  under  them  and  ask  of  heaven 
strength  to  bear — to  bear  as  best  we  can,  until  time  shall 
shed  a  few  drops  of  healing  balm  from  its  wTings. 

On  the  last  night  that  Charles  had  seen  her,  Janey's 
eyes  and  brow  were  heavy,  she  had  cried  much  during 
the  day  and  supposed  the  pain  to  have  arisen  from  that 
circumstance.  She  had  given  this  explanation  to  Charles 
Taylor.  Neither  he  nor  she  had  a  thought  that  it  could 
come  from  any  other  source.  More  than  a  month  ago 
Mary  Ann  had  taken  the  fever;  fears  of  it  for  Janey  had 


5o 

passed  away,  and  yet  those  dull  eyes,  that  hot  head,  that 
heavy  weight  of  pain,  were  only  the  symptoms  of  the 
sickness  approaching.  A  night  of  tossing  and  turning, 
in  fits  of  disturbed  sleep,  of  terrifying  dreams,  and  Janey 
awoke  to  the  conviction  that  the  fever  was  upon  her. 

About  the  time  she  generally  arose  she  rang  the  bell 
for  Eliza.  "  I  do  not  feel  well,"  she  said,  "  as  soon  as 
mamma  is  up  will  you  ask  her  to  come  to  me?  do  not 
disturb  her  before." 

Eliza  obeyed  her  orders.  But  her  mother,  tired  and 
worn  out  with  her  attendance  upon  Mary  Ann,  with 
whom  she  had  been  up  half  the  night,  did  not  rise  until 
between  nine  and  ten.  The  maid  went  to  her  then  and 
delivered  the  message. 

"In  bed,  still;  Miss  Janey  in  bed,  still?"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Brewster.  She  spoke  in  much  anger,  for  Janey 
had  to  be  up  in  time,  attending  to  Mary  Ann,  it  was  re- 
quired of  her  to  be  so.  Throwing  on  a  dressing-gown, 
Mrs.  Brewster  proceeded  to  Janey's  room,  and  there  she 
broke  into  a  storm  of  reproach  and  anger,  never  waiting 
to  ascertain  what  might  be  the  matter  with  Janey,  any- 
thing or  nothing. 

"Ten  o'clock,  and  that  poor  child  to  have  been  till 

now  with  nobody  to  go  near  her  but  a  servant!"  she 
reiterated,  "yoil  have  no  feeling,  Jane}  !" 

Janey  drew  the  covering  from  her  (lushed  face  and 
turned  her  glittering  eyes,  dull  last  night,  shining  with 
tin-  fever  now  upon  her,  upon  her  mother. 


5i 


"  Oh,  mamma,  I  am  sick;  indeed  I  am.  I  can  hardly 
lift  my  head  for  the  pain;  feel  how  hot  it  is.  I  did  not 
think  I  ought  to  get  up." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "  sharply  inquired 
Mrs.  Brewster. 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  answered  Janey,  "  I  know  that  I  feel 
sick  all  over.    I  feel,  mamma,  as  if  I  could  not  get  up." 

"Very  well;  there's  that  dear,  suffering  angel  lying 
alone,  and  you  can  think  of  yourself  before  her;  if  you 
choose  to  lie  in  bed  you  must,  but  you  will  reproach 
yourself  for  your  selfishness  when  she  is  gone ;  another 
twenty-four  hours  and  she  may  not  be  with  us;  do  as 
you  think  best." 

Janey  burst  into  tears  and  caught  hold  of  her  mother's 
robe  as  she  was  turning  away.  "  Mamma,  do  not  be 
angry  with  me;  I  hope  I  am  not  selfish,  mamma,"  and 
her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  "  I  have  been  thinking  that 
it  may  be  the  fever." 

"  The  fever?  "  reproachfully  echoed  Mrs.  Brewster, 
"  Heaven  help  you  for  a  selfish  and  fanciful  child;  did  I 
not  send  you  to  bed  with  a  headache  last  night,  and 
what  is  it  but  the  remains  of  that  headache  that  you  feel 
this  morning?  I  can  see  what  it  is,  you  have  been 
fretting  about  the  departure  of  Charles  Taylor;  get  up 
out  of  that  hot  bed  and  dress  yourself,  and  come  in  and 
attend  on  your  sister;  you  know  she  can't  bear  to  be 
waited  on  by  anybody  but  you;  get  up,  I  say." 

Will  Mrs.  Brewster  remember  this  to  her  dying  day? 


52 


I  should  were  I  in  her  place.  She  suppressed  all  men- 
tion of  it  to  Charles  Taylor.  "  The  dear  child  told  me 
that  she  did  not  feel  well,  but  I  only  thought  she  had  the 
headache  and  that  she  would  feel  better  up,"  were  the 
words  that  she  used  to  him. 

What  sort  of  a  vulture  was  gnawing  at  her  heart  as 
she  spoke  them?  It  was  true  that  in  her  blind  selfish- 
ness for  one  undeserving  child  she  had  lost  sight  of  the 
fact  that  sickness  could  come  to  Janey;  she  had  not 
allowed  herself  to  believe  the  probability;  she,  who  ac- 
cused of  selfishness  that  devoted,  generous  girl,  who  was 
ready  at  all  hours  to  put  her  hands  under  her  sister's 
feet,  and  would  have  given  her  own  life  to  save  Mary 
Aim's.  Janey  got  up,  got  up  as  best  she  could,  her 
limbs  aching,  her  head  burning;  she  went  into  her  sis- 
ter's room  and  did  for  her  what  she  was  able,  gently, 
lovingly,  anxiously,  as  before.  Ah,  my  dear  reader, 
let  us  be  thankful  that  it  was  so;  it  is  well  to  be  stricken 
down  in  the  active  path  of  duty,  working  until  we 
can  work  no  more.  She  did  so.  She  stayed  where 
she  was  until  the  day  was  half  gone,  bearing  up 
it  is  hard  to  say  how.  She  could  not  eat  breakfast; 
she  could  not  eat  anything.  None  saw  how  sick  she 
was;  her  mother  was  wilfully  blind.  Mary  Ann  had 
eves  and  thoughts  for  herself  alone.  "  What  are  you 
shivering  for?"  her  sister  once  fretfully  asked  her.  "  I 
feel  cold,  dear,"  was  Janey's  unselfish  answer;  not  a 
word  more  did  she  say  of  her  illness.    In  the  afternoon 


53 


Mrs.  Brewster  was  away  from  the  room  attending  to 
domestic  affairs,  and  when  she  returned  the  doctor  was 
there;  he  had  been  prevented  from  calling  earlier  in  the 
day;  they  found  Mary  Ann  dropped  into  a  doze  and 
Janey  stretched  out  on  the  floor  before  the  fire,  groan- 
ing; but  the  groans  ceased  as  she  entered.  The  doctor, 
regardless  of  the  waking  invalid,  strode  up  to  Janey  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  light.  "  How  long  has  she  been 
like  this?"  he  asked,  his  voice  shrill  with  emotion. 
"  Child,  child,  why  did  they  not  send  for  me?"  Poor 
Janey  was  then  too  sick  to  reply.  The  doctor  carried 
her  up  to  her  room  in  his  arms,  and  the  servants  un- 
dressed her  and  laid  her  in  the  bed  from  which  she  was 
never  more  to  rise.  The  fever  took  violent  hold  of  her, 
precisely  as  it  had  attacked  Mary  Ann,  though  scarcely 
as  bad,  and  danger  for  Janey  was  not  looked  for  by  her 
mother.  Had  Mary  Ann  not  got  over  a  similar  crisis  they 
would  have  feared  for  Janey,  so  given  are  we  to  judge  by 
collateral  circumstances.  It  was  on  the  fourth  or  fifth  day 
that  highly  dangerous  symptoms  supervened,  and  then  her 
mother  wrote  to  Charles  the  letter  which  had  not  reached 
him;  there  was  this  much  of  negative  consolation  to  be 
derived  from  the  non-receipt,  that  had  it  been  delivered 
to  him  on  the  instant  of  its  arrival  he  could  not  have  been 
in  time  to  see  her.  "  You  ought  to  have  written  to  me 
as  soon  as  she  was  taken  sick,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Brewster. 
"  I  would  have  done  it  had  I  apprehended  danger,"  she 
repentantly  answered,  "  but  I  never  did,  and  the  doctor 


54 


never  did.  I  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  get 
her  safely  through  the  danger  and  sickness  before  you 
knew  of  it."  "  Did  she  not  wish  me  written  to?"  The 
question  was  asked  firmly,  abruptly,  after  the  manner  of 
one  who  will  not  be  cheated  out  of  his  answer.  Her 
mother  could  not  evade  it;  how  could  she,  with  her  child 
lying  dead  over  her  head? 

"  It  is  true  she  did  wish  it,  it  was  on  the  first  day 
of  her  illness  that  she  spoke,  '  Write  and  tell  Charles 
Taylor,'  she  never  said  it  but  once."  "And  you  did  not," 
he  uttered,  his  voice  hoarse  with  emotion.  "  Do  not  re- 
proach me!  Do  not  reproach  me!"  cried  Mrs.  Brews- 
ter, clasping  her  hands  in  supplication,  and  the  tears 
falling  in  showers  from  her  eyes,  "  I  did  all  for  the  best, 
I  never  supposed  there  was  danger.  I  thought  what  a 
pity  it  would  be  to  bring  you  back  such  a  long  journey, 
putting  you  to  so  much  unnecessary  trouble  and  ex- 
pense." Trouble  and  expense — in  a  case  like  that  she 
could  speak  of  expense  to  Charles — but  he  thought  how 
she  had  to  battle  with  both  trouble  and  expense  her 
whole  life  long,  and  that  for  her  they  must  wear  a  for- 
midable aspect,  he  remained  silent.  "  I  wish  now  I  had 
written,"  she  resumed  in  the  midst  of  her  choking  sobs, 
"  as  soon  as  the  doctors  said  there  was  danger,  I  wished 
it,  but,"  as  if  she  would  seek  to  excuse  herself,  "  what 
with  the  two  upon  my  hands,  she  upstairs,  Mary  down 
here,  I  had  not  a  moment  for  proper  reflection."  "  Did 
you  tell   her   you   had  not  written?"  he  asked,  "  or 


55 


did  you  let  her  lie  day  after  day,  hour  after  hour, 
waiting  and  blaming  me  for  my  careless  neglect?"  "  She 
never  blamed  any  one,  you  know  she  did  not,"  wailed 
Mrs.  Brewster,  "  and  I  think  she  was  too  sick  to  think 
even  of  you,  she  was  only  sensible  at  times.  Oh,  I  say, 
do  not  reproach  me,  Mr.  Taylor,  I  would  give  my  own 
life  to  bring  her  back.  I  never  knew  her  worth  until 
she  was  gone,  I  never  loved  her  as  I  love  her  now." 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Mrs.  Brewster  was  re- 
proaching herself  far  more  bitterly  than  any  reproach 
could  tell  upon  her  from  Charles  Taylor,  an  accusing 
conscience  is  the  worst  of  all  evils.  She  sat  there,  her 
head  bent,  swaying  herself  backwards  and  forwards  on 
her  chair,  moaning  and  crying.  It  was  not  a  time 
Charles  felt  to  say  a  word  of  her  past  heartless  conduct 
in  forcing  Janey  to  breathe  the  infection  of  her  sister's 
sick  room,  and  all  that  he  could  say,  all  the  reproaches, 
all  the  remorse  and  repentance  would  not  bring  her  back 
to  life.  "  Would  you  like  to  see  her,"  whispered  her 
mother,  as  he  rose  to  go?  "  Yes."  She  lighted  a  can- 
dle and  led  the  way  upstairs.  Janey  had  died  in  her 
own  room.  At  the  door  he  took  the  candle  from  Mrs. 
Brewster.  "  I  must  go  in  alone."  He  passed  into  the 
chamber  and  closed  the  door,  on  the  bed  laid  out  in  a 
white  robe,  lay  all  that  remained  of  Janey  Brewster. 
Pale,  still,  pure,  her  face  was  wonderfully  like  what  it 
had  been  in  life,  and  a  calm  smile  rested  upon  it,  but 
Charles  wished  to  be  alone.    Mrs.  Brewster  stood  out- 


56 


side,  leaning  against  the  opposite  wall,  weeping  silently, 
the  glimmer  from  the  hall  lamp  below  faintly  lighting 
the  corridor,  and  she  fancied  that  a  sound  of  choking 
struck  upon  her  ears,  and  she  pulled  around  her  a  small 
black  shawl  that  she  wore,  for  grief  had  made  her  chilly, 
and  wept  the  faster.  He  came  out  by  and  by,  calm  and 
quiet  as  ever,  he  did  not  see  Mrs.  Brewster  standing 
there  in  the  dimly  lighted  hall,  and  went  straight  down, 
carrying  the  candle.  Mrs.  Brewster  caught  up  with 
him  at  Mary  Ann's  room,  and  took  the  candle  from 
him. 

"She  looks  very  peaceful,  does  she  not? "  was  her 
whisper.  "  She  could  not  look  otherwise."  He  went 
on  down  alone,  intending  to  let  himself  out,  but  Eliza 
had  heard  his  steps  and  was  waiting  at  the  door.  "  Good 
night  Eliza,"  he  said,  as  he  passed  her.  The  girl  did 
not  answer,  she  slipped  out  into  the  yard  after  him.  "  Oh, 
sir,  and  didn't  you  hear  of  it?  "  she  whispered.  "  No." 
"  If  anybody  was  ever  gone  away  to  be  an  angel,  sir,  its 
that  sweet  young  lady,  sir,"  said  Eliza,  letting  her  tears 
and  sobs  come  forth  as  they  would,  "She  was  just  one 
here  and  she  has  gone  to  her  own  fit  place."  "  Yes, 
that  is  so."  "  You  should  have  been  in  this  house 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  illness  to  have  seen  the  dif- 
ference between  them,  sir.  Nobody  would  believe  it; 
Miss  Brewster  angry  and  snappish,  and  not  caring  who 
suffered  or  who  was  sick,  or  who  toiled,  so  that  she  was 
served,  Miss  Janey  lying  like  a  tender  lamb,  patient  and 


57 


meek,  thankful  for  all  that  was  done  for  her.  It  does 
seem  hard,  sir,  that  we  should  lose  her  forever."  "  Not 
forever,  Eliza,"  he  answered.  "  And  that  is  true,  too ;  but 
sir,  the  worst  is,  one  can't  think  of  that  sort  of  consolation 
just  when  one's  troubles  are  the  freshest.  Good  night, 
to  you,  sir."  Charles  Taylor  walked  on,  leaving  the 
high  road  for  a  less  frequented  one;  he  went  along, 
musing  in  the  depth  of  his  great  grief;  there  was  no  re- 
pining. He  was  one  to  trace  the  finger  of  God  in  all 
things.  A  more  entire  trust  in  God  it  was,  perhaps,  im- 
possible for  any  one  to  feel  than  was  felt  by  Charles 
Taylor;  it  was  what  he  lived  under.  He  could  not  see 
why  Janey  should  have  been  taken,  why  this  great  sor- 
row should  fall  upon  him,  but  that  it  must  be  for  the  best 
he  implicitly  believed — the  best,  for  God  had  done  it. 
How  he  was  to  live  on  without  her  he  did  not  know. 
How  he  could  support  the  lively  anguish  of  the  future 
he  did  not  care  to  think.  All  his  hopes  in  this  life  gone, 
all  his  plans,  his  projects  uprooted  by  a  single  blow, 
never  to  return.  He  might  look  yet  for  the  bliss  of  a 
Hereafter  that  remains  for  the  most  heavy  laden,  thank 
God,  but  his  sun  of  happiness  in  this  world  had  set  for- 
ever. The  moon  was  not  shining  as  it  was  the  night  he 
left  Janey,  when  he  left  his  farewell  kiss.  Oh!  that  he 
could  have  known  that  it  was  the  last  on  the  gentle  lips 
of  Janey.  There  was  no  moon  now;  the  stars  were  not 
showing  themselves,  for  a  black  cloud  enveloped  the 
skies  like  a  pall,  fit  accompaniment  to  his  blasted  hopes 


58 


and  his  path  altogether  was  dark.  But,  as  he  neared 
the  office  of  the  doctor,  he  could  see  him  sitting  in  his 
accustomed  place.  Charles  thought  that  he  would  like 
to  have  a  few  minutes  conversation  with  him.  He 
walked  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  saw  that  the  doctor 
was  alone. 


Chapter  VI. 


DR.   BROWN  EXPLAINS  TO  CHARLES. 

"  (TXoctor,  why  did  you  not  write  to  me?"  the  doctor 
brought  down  his  fist  on  his  desk  with  such  force 
as  to  cause  some  of  his  vials  to  fall  over  and  waste  their 
contents;  he  had  been  bottling  up  his  anger  for  some  time 
against  Mrs.  Brewster,  and  this  was  the  first  explosion. 
"  Because  I  understood  that  she  had  done  so.  I  was 
there  when  the  poor  child  asked  her  to  do  it.  I  found 
her  on  the  floor  in  Mary  Ann's  room;  on  the  floor,  if 
you  will  believe  it,  lying  there  because  she  could  not  hold 
her  head  up.  Her  mother  had  dragged  her  out  of  the 
bed  that  morning,  sick  as  she  was,  and  forced  her  to  at- 
tend as  usual  upon  Mary  Ann.  I  got  it  all  out  of  Eliza. 
'Mamma,'  she  said,  when  I  pronunced  it  to  be  the 
fever,  though  she  was  almost  beyond  speaking  then, 
*  you  will  write  to  Charles  Taylor?'  I  never  thought 
but  what  she  had  done  it;  your  sister  inquired  if  you  had 
been  written  for  and  I  told  her  yes."  "  Doctor,"  came 
the  next  sad  words,  "could  you  not  have  saved  her?" 
The  doctor  shook  his  head  and  answered  in  a  quiet 

59 


6o 


tone,  looking  down  at  the  stopper  of  a  vial  which  he  had 
caused  to  drop  upon  the  floor,  "  neither  care  nor  skill 
could  save  her.  I  did  the  best  that  could  be  done,  Tay- 
lor," raising  his  quick,  dark  eyes,  flashing  them  with  a 
peculiar  light;  "  she  was  ready  to  go;  let  it  be  your  con- 
solation." Charles  Taylor  made  no  answer,  and  there 
was  a  pause  of  silence.  The  doctor  continued :  "  As  to 
her  mother,  I  hope  that  she  may  have  her  heart  wrung 
with  remembrance  for  years  to  come.  I  don't  care  what 
people  preach  about  charity  and  forgiveness,  I  do  wish 
it;  but  she  will  be  brought  to  her  senses,  unless  I  am 
mistaken.  She  has  lost  her  treasure  and  kept  her  bane 
a  year  or  two  more,  and  that  is  what  Mary  Ann  will 
be."  "  She  ought  to  have  written  to  me."  "  She  ought 
to  do  many  things  that  she  does  not;  she  ought  to  have 
sent  Janey  from  the  house,  as  I  told  her,  as  soon  as  the 
disorder  appeared  in  it.  No,  she  kept  her  in  her  insane 
selfishness,  and  now  I  hope  she  is  satisfied  with  her 
work.  When  alarming  symptoms  showed  themselves 
in  Janey,  on  the  fourth  day  of  her  illness,  I  think  it 
was,  I  said  to  her  mother,  it  is  strange  what  can  be 
keeping  Mr.  Taylor.  <  Oh,'  said  she,  i  I  did  not  write  for 
him.'  *  Not  write! '  I  answered;  and  I  fear  I  used  an 
Ugly  word  to  her  face.  *  I'll  write  at  once,'  returned 
she,  humbly.  'Of  course,'  said  I,  'after  the  horse  is 
stolen  we  always  shut  the  barn  door  it's  the  way  of  the 
world.' "  Another  pause. 
"  1  would  have  given  anything  to  have  taken  Janey 


6i 


from  the  house  at  the  time ;  to  take  her  away  from  the 
town,"  observed  Charles  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  said  so  then, 
but  it  could  not  be."  "  I  should  have  done  it  in  your 
place,"  said  the  doctor;  "  if  her  mother  had  said  no,  I 
would  have  carried  her  away  in  front  of  her  face. 
6  Not  married,' you  say.  Rubbish  to  that;  everybody 
knows  she  would  have  been  safe  with  you,  and  you 
would  have  been  married  as  soon  as  you  could.  What 
are  forms  and  ceremonies  and  long  tongues  in  compari- 
son with  a  life  like  Janey's?"  Charles  Taylor  leaned  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  lost  in  the  retrospect.  Oh  that  he 
had  taken  her,  that  he  had  set  at  naught  what  he  had 
then  bowed  to,  the  conventionalities  of  society,  she  might 
have  been  by  his  side  now  in  health  and  life  to  bless  him. 
Doubting  words  interrupted  the  train  of  thoughts. 
"  And  yet  I  don't  know,"  the  doctor  wras  repeating  in  a 
dreamy  manner,  "  what  is  to  be  will  be;  we  look  back, 
all  of  us,  and  say,  if  I  had  acted  thus,  if  I  had  done 
the  other  thing,  it  would  not  have  happened;  events 
would  have  turned  out  differently,  but  who  is  to  be  sure 
of  it.  Had  you  carried  Janey  out  of  harm's  way,  as  we 
might  have  thought,  there  is  no  telling  but  what  she 
might  have  had  the  fever  just  the  same ;  her  blood  might 
have  become  tainted  before  she  left  the  house,  there  is 
no  knowing,  Mr.  Taylor."  "  True.  Good  evening, 
doctor."  He  turned  suddenly  and  hastily  to  go  out  of 
the  door,  but  the  doctor  caught  him  before  he  had 
crossed  the  threshhold,  and  touched  his  arm  to  detain 


62 


him.  They  stood  there  in  obscurity,  their  faces  shaded 
in  the  dusky  night.  "  She  left  you  a  parting  word,  Mr. 
Taylor,  an  hour  before  she  died;  she  was  calm  and  sensi- 
ble, though  extremely  weak.  Mrs.  Brewster  had  gone 
to  her  favorite,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  Janey.  *  Has 
he  not  come  yet?'  she  asked  me,  opening  her  eyes.  4  My 
dear,'  I  said,  c  he  could  not  come,  he  was  never  written 
for,'  for  I  knew  she  alluded  to  you,  and  was  determined 
to  tell  her  the  truth,  dying  though  she  was.  *  What  shall 
I  say  to  him  for  you?'  I  continued.  She  raised  her  hand 
to  motion  my  face  nearer  hers,  for  her  voice  was  grow- 
ing faint.  1  Tell  him,  with  my  dear  love,  not  to  grieve,' 
she  whispered  between  her  panting  breath,  *  tell  him 
that  I  am  but  gone  on  before.'  I  think  they  were  almost 
the  last  words  that  she  spoke."  Charles  Taylor  leaned 
against  the  post  of  the  office  entrance,  and  drank  in  the 
words;  then  he  shook  the  doctor's  hand  and  departed, 
hurrying  along  like  one  who  shrank  from  observation, 
for  he  did  not  care  just  then  to  encounter  the  gaze  of  his 
fellow-men.  Coming  with  a  quick  step  up  the  same 
street  on  which  the  office  is  situated  was  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Davis.  lie  stopped  to  address  the  doctor.  "Was 
that  Mr.  Taylor?"  "  Yes;  this  is  a  blow  for  him."  Mr. 
Davis'  voice  insensibly  sank  to  a  whisper.  "  My  wife 
tells  me  that  he  did  not  know  of  Janey's  death  and  sick- 
ness until  lie  arrived  here.  He  thought  it  was  Mary 
Ann  who  died;  he  went  to  her  mother's  thinking  so." 
"  Mrs.  Brewster  is  a  fool,"  was  the  complimentary  re- 


63 

joinder  of  the  doctor.  "  She  is  in  some  things,"  warmly- 
assented  the  pastor.  "  The  telegram  she  sent  was  so 
obscurely  worded  as  to  cause  him  to  assume  that  it  was 
Mary  Ann."  "  Well,  she  is  only  heaping  burdens  on 
her  conscience,"  rejoined  the  doctor  in  a  philosophic 
tone,  "  she  has  lost  Janey  through  want  of  care,  as  I 
firmly  believe,  in  not  keeping  her  out  of  the  way  of  the 
infection,  she  prevented  their  last  meeting  through  not 
writing  to  him,  she — " 

"  He  could  not  have  saved  her  had  he  been  here,"  in- 
terrupted Mr.  Davis.  "Nobody  said  he  could;  there 
would  have  been  satisfaction  in  it  for  him  though,  and 
for  her,  too,  poor  child."  Mr.  Davis  did  not  contest  the 
point,  he  was  so  very  practical  a  man  that  he  saw  little 
use  in  last  interviews ;  unless  they  were  made  productive 
of  actual  good  he  was  disposed  to  regard  such  as  border- 
ing on  the  sentimental.  "  I  have  been  over  to  see 
Bangs,"  he  remarked.  "  They  sent  to  the  house  after 
me  while  I  was  after  mail;  the  boy  said  he  did  not  be- 
lieve he  would  live  through  the  night  and  wanted  the 
parson.  I  had  a  great  mind  to  send  word  back  that  if 
he  was  in  want  of  a  parson  he  should  have  seen  him  be- 
fore." "  He's  as  likely  to  live  through  this  night  as  he 
has  been  any  night  for  the  last  six  months,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Not  a  day  since  then  but  what  he  has  been 
as  likely  to  die  as  not."  "  And  never  to  awaken  to  a 
thought  that  it  might  be  desirable  to  make  ready  for  the 
journey  until  the  twelfth  hour,"  exclaimed  the  parson. 


64 


"  'When  I  have  a  convenient  season  I  will  call  for  thee.5  If 
I  have  been  to  see  him  once  I  have  been  twenty  times," 
asserted  the  pastor,  "  and  never  could  get  him  to  pray. 
He  wilfully  put  off  all  thought  of  death  until  the  twelfth 
hour  and  then  sends  for  me  or  one  of  my  brethren  and 
expects  one  hour's  devotion  will  ensure  his  entrance  into 
heaven.    I  don't  keep  the  keys."    "  Did  Bangs  send 
for  you  or  did  the  family?  "  inquired  the  doctor.  "  He,  I 
expect;  he  was  dressed  for  the  occasion."  "Will  he  live 
long?  "    "  It  is  uncertain;  he  may  last  for  six  months  or 
a  year  and  he  may  die  next  week;  it  will  be  sudden 
when  it  does  come."  The  pastor  walked  away  at  a  brisk 
rate.    Mrs.  Davis  was  out  of  the  room  talking  with 
some  late  applicant  when  he  arrived  at  home.  Laying 
aside  her  wrap  Mrs.  Davis  seated  herself  before  the  fire 
in  a  quiet  merino  dress,  the  blaze  flickering  on  her  face 
betrayed  to  the  keen  glance  of  the  pastor  that  her  eye- 
lashes were  wet.    "  Grieving  about  Janey,  I  suppose?" 
his  tone  a  stern  one.    "Well,"  continued  the  pastor, 
"  she  is  better  off.    The  time  may  come,  we  none  of  us 
know  what  is  before  us,  when  some  of  us  who  are  left 
may  wish  we  had  died,  as  she  has;  many  a  one  battling 
for  very  existence  with  the  world's  carking  cares  wails 
out  a  vain  wish  that  he  had  been  taken  early  from  the 
evil  to  come."     "  It  must  be  dreadful  for  Charles 
Taylor,"  she  resumed,  looking  straight  into  the  fire  and 
speaking  as  if  in  communion  with  herself  more  than  her 
husband.    "  Charley  Taylor  must  find  another  love." 


65 


It  was  one  of  those  phrases  spoken  in  satire  only,  to 
which  the  pastor  of  this  village  was  occasionally  given. 
He  saw  so  much  to  condemn  in  the  world,  things  which 
grated  harshly  on  his  superior  mind,  that  his  speech  had 
become  imbued  with  a  touch  of  gall,  and  he  would  often 
give  utterance  to  cynical  remarks  not  at  the  time  called 
for.  There  came  a  day,  not  long  afterwards,  when  the 
residents  of  Belville  gathered  at  the  church  to  hear  and 
see  the  last  of  Janey  Brewrster.  As  many  came  inside 
as  could,  for  it  was  known  to  the  public  that  nothing  dis- 
pleased their  pastor  so  much  as  to  have  irreverent  idlers 
standing  around  the  church  staring  and  gaping  and 
whispering  their  comments  while  he  was  performing  the 
service  of  the  burial  of  the  dead,  and  his  wishes  were 
generally  respected. 

The  funeral  now  was  inside  the  church.  It  had  been 
in  so  long  that  some  eager  watchers,  estimating  time  by 
their  impatience,  began  to  think  it  was  never  coming 
out,  but  a  sudden  movement  in  the  church  reassured 
them.  Slowly,  slowly,  on  it  came,  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Davis  leading  the  way,  the  coffin  next,  then  came  her 
mother  and  a  few  other  relatives,  and  Charles  Taylor 
with  a  stranger  by  his  side;  nothing  more,  save  the  pall- 
bearers with  white  scarfs  and  the  necessary  attendants. 
It  was  a  perfectly  simple  funeral,  corresponding  well 
with  what  the  dead  had  been  in  her  simple  life.  The 
sight  of  this  stranger  took  the  curious  gazers  by  sur- 
prise.   Who  was  he?    A  stout  gentleman,  past  middle 


66 


age,  holding  his  head  high,  with  gold  spectacles.  He 
proved  to  be  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Brewster.  The  grave 
had  been  dug  in  a  line  with  others  not  far  from  the  edge 
of  the  burying  ground.  On  it  came,  crossing  the  broad 
churchyard  path  which  wound  round  to  the  road,  cross- 
ing over  patches  of  grass,  treading  between  mounds  and 
graves.  The  clergyman  took  his  place  at  the  head,  the 
mourners  near  him,  the  rest  disposing  themselves 
quietly  around.  "  Man,  that  is  born  of  woman,  hath 
but  a  short  time  to  live,  and  is  full  of  misery.  He  cometh 
up  and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower;  he  fleeth  as  it  were  a 
shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  place."  The  crowd 
held  their  breath  and  listened  and  looked  at  Charles 
Taylor.  He  stood  there,  his  head  bowed,  his  face  still, 
the  gentle  wind  stirring  his  thin  dark  hair.  It  was  prob- 
ably a  wonder  to  him  in  afterlife  how  he  had  contrived 
in  that  closing  hour  to  retain  his  calmness  before  the 
world.  "  The  coffin  is  lowered  at  last,"  broke  out  a 
little  boy  who  had  been  more  curious  to  watch  the  move- 
ments of  the  men  than  the  aspect  of  Charles  Taylor. 
"  Hush,  sir,"  sharply  rebuked  his  mother,  and  the  min- 
ister's voice  again  stole  over  the  silence.  "  Forasmuch 
as  it  has  pleased  Almighty  God  of  His  great  mercy  to 
take  unto  himself  the  soul  of  our  dear  sister  here  de- 
parted, we,  therefore,  commit  her  body  to  the  ground, 
earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,  in  sure  and 
certain  hope  of  the  resurrection  to  eternal  life,  through 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  who  shall  c  hange;  our  vile  bodies 


67 


that  they  may  be  like  unto  His  glorious  body,  according 
to  the  mighty  working  whereby  He  is  able  to  subdue  all 
things  to  himself."  Every  word  came  home  to  Charles 
Taylor's  senses,  every  syllable  vibrated  upon  his  heart- 
strings; that  sure  and  certain  hope  laid  hold  of  his  soul 
never  again  to  leave  it.  It  diffused  its  own  holy  peace 
and  calm  in  his  troubled  mind,  and  never  until  that  mo- 
ment did  he  fully  realize  the  wrorth,  the  truth  of  her 
legacy.  "  Tell  him  that  I  am  but  gone  on  before,"  a 
few  years.  God,  now  present  with  him  alone,  knew 
how  few  or  how  many,  and  Charles  Taylor  would  have 
joined  her  in  eternal  life.  But  why  did  the  minister 
come  to  a  temporary  pause?  Because  his  eyes  had 
fallen  upon  one  then  coming  up  from  the  entrance 
of  the  burying  ground  to  take  his  place  among  the 
mourners,  and  who  had  evidently  arrived  in  a  hurry. 
He  wrore  neither  scarf  nor  hat-band,  nothing  but  a  full 
suit  of  plain  black  clothes.  "  Look,  mamma,  cried  a 
little  boy.  It  was  George  Taylor,  the  cousin  of  Charles 
Taylor.  He  stood  quietly  by  the  side  of  his  cousin,  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  his  head  bowed,  his  curly  hair  waiving 
in  the  breeze.  It  was  all  the  work  of  an  instant,  and 
the  minister  continued :  "  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven 
saying  unto  me,  write,  from  henceforth  blessed  are  the 
dead  which  die  in  the  Lord,  even  so,  sayeth  the  spirit, 
for  they  rest  from  their  labors,"  and  so  went  on  the  ser- 
vice to  the  end.  The  passage  having  been  cleared,  sev- 
eral mourning  carriages  were  in  waiting.    Charles  Tay- 


68 


lor  come  forth  leaning  on  his  cousin's  arm,  both  of  them 
still  bare  headed.  They  entered  one,  the  friends  and 
relatives  filled  the  others,  and  soon  several  men  were 
shovelling  earth  upon  the  coffin  as  fast  as  they  could, 
sending  it  with  a  rattle  on  the  bright  plate  which  told 
who  was  moldering  within,  Janey  Brewster,  aged  twenty- 
one  years.  "  Charles,"  cried  his  cousin  George,  leaning 
forward  and  seizing  his  cousin's  hand  impulsively,  as 
the  carriage  moved  slowly  on,  "  I  should  have  been 
here  in  good  time,  but  for  a  delay  in  the  train." 

"  Where  did  you  hear  of  it?  I  did  not  know  where 
to  write  to  you,"  calmly  asked  Charles.  "  I  heard  of  it 
in  Gray  Town  and  I  came  up  here  at  once;  Charles, 
could  they  not  save  her?"  A  slight  negative  movement 
was  all  Charles  Taylor's  answer. 

The  time  went  on,  several  months  had  passed,  posi- 
tions changed  and  Bellville  was  itself  again;  the  un- 
usually lovely  weather  which  had  prevailed  so  far  as  it 
had  gone  had  put  it  into  Mrs.  Brown's  head  to  give  an 
out-door  entertainment,  the  doctor  had  suggested  that 
the  weather  might  change,  that  there  was  no  depend- 
ence to  be  placed  in  it,  but  she  would  not  change  her 
plans  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  at  the  last  moment 
she  said  they  must  do  the  best  they  could  with  them  in- 
side. But  the  weather  was  not  fickle,  the  day  rose 
warm,  calm  and  wonderfully  bright,  and  by  five  in  the 
afternoon,  most  of  the  gay  revellers  had  gathered  on  the 
grounds.    George  Taylor,  a  cousin  of  Charles  arrived* 


69 


one  of  the  first;  he  was  making  himself  conspicuous 
among  the  many  groups,  or  perhaps,  it  was  they 
that  made  him  so  by  gathering  around  him,  when 
two  figures  in  mourning  came  up  behind  him,  one  of 
whom  spoke  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  George  Taylor," 
he  turned,  and  careless  and  thoughtless  and  graceless, 
as  he  wras  reported  to  be,  a  shock  of  surprise  not  un- 
mixed with  indignation  swept  over  his  feelings,  for  there 
standing  before  him  were  Mrs.  Brewster  and  Mary  Ann. 
She — Mary  Ann — looked  like  a  shadow,  still  peevish, 
white,  discontented;  what  brought  them  there,  was  it  so 
they  showed  their  regrets  for  the  dead  Janey,  was  it 
likely  that  Mary  Ann  should  appear  at  a  feast  of  gayety 
in  her  weak  state,  sickly,  not  yet  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  fever,  not  yet  out  of  the  first  deep  mourn- 
ing for  Janey.  "  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Brewster,"  very 
gravely  responded  George.  Mrs.  Brewster  may  have 
discerned  somewhat  his  feelings  from  the  expression 
on  his  face,  not  that  he  intentionally  suffered  it  to  rise  in 
reproof  of  her.  George  Taylor  did  not  set  himself  up 
in  judgment  against  his  fellow-men.  Mrs.  Brewster 
drew  him  aside  with  her  after  he  had  shaken  hands  with 
Mary  Ann.  "  I  am  sure  it  must  look  strange  to  you  to 
see  us  both  here,  Mr.  Taylor,  but  poor  child,  she  con- 
tinues so  weak  and  poorly  that  I  scarcely  know  what  to 
do  with  her,  she  set  her  heart  upon  coming  here  ever 
since  Mrs.  Brown's  invitation  arrived;  she  has  talked  of 
nothing  else,  and  I  thought  it  would  not  do  to  cross  her. 


7o 


Is  Mr.  Taylor  here?"  "  Oh  no,"  replied  George,  with 
more  haste  than  he  need  have  spoken.  "  I  thought  he 
would  not  be,  I  remarked  so  to  Mary  Ann  when  she 
expressed  a  hope  for  seeing  him,  indeed  I  think  it  was 
that  hope  which  chiefly  urged  her  to  come;  what  have 
we  done  to  him,  Mr.  George,  he  scarcely  ever  comes 
near  the  house?"  "I  don't  know  anything  about  it," 
returned  George;  "  I  can  see  that  my  cousin  feels  his 
loss  deeply,  yet  it  may  be  that  visits  to  your  house  re- 
mind him  of  Janey  too  forcibly."  "  Will  he  ever  marry, 
do  you  think?"  said  Mrs.  Brewster,  lowering  her  voice 
to  a  confidential  whisper. 

"  At  present  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  he  never 
would,"  answered  George,  wondering  what  in  the  world 
it  would  matter  to  her  and  thinking  she  evinced  little 
sorrow  or  consideration  for  the  memory  of  Janey.  "  But 
time  works  surprising  changes,"  he  added.  "  And  time 
may  affect  Mr.  Taylor,"  Mrs.  Brewster  paused,  "How 
do  you  think  she  looks,  my  poor  child?"  "  Miserable" 
almost  rose  to  the  tip  of  George's  tongue,  "  she  does 
not  look  well,"  he  said  aloud.  "  And  she  does  so  regret 
her  dear  sister,  she's  grieving  after  her  always,"  said  Mrs. 
Brewster,  putting  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  I  don't 
believe  it,  thought  George  to  himself.  "  I  low  did  you 
like  Graytown?"  she  resumed,  passing  with  little  cere- 
mony to  another  topic.  "  I  liked  it  very  well;  all  places 
are  pretty  much  alike  to  a  bachelor,  Mrs.  Brewster." 
"  Yes,  so  they  are,  you  won't  remain  a  bachelor  very 


7i 


long,"  continued  Mrs.  Brewster  with  a  smile  of  jocular- 
ity. "  Not  so  very  long  I  dare  say,"  acknowledged 
George.  "  It  is  possible  I  may  put  my  head  in  the 
noose  some  time  in  the  next  ten  years."  She  would  have 
detained  him  further,  but  George  did  not  care  to  be  de- 
tained, he  went  after  more  attractive  companionship. 
Chance  or  accident  led  him  to  Miss  Flint,  a  niece  of 
Mrs.  Brown.  Miss  Flint  had  all  her  attractions  about  her 
that  day,  her  bright  pink  silk — for  pink  was  a  favorite 
color  of  hers — was  often  seen  by  the  side  of  George 
Taylor,  once  they  strayed  to  the  borders  of  a  river  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  village,  several  were  gathered  there, 
a  row  on  the  water  had  been  proposed  and  a  boat  stood 
ready,  a  small  boat,  capable  of  holding  very  few  persons, 
but  of  these  George  and  Julia  Flint  made  two;  could 
George  have  foreseen  what  that  simple  little  excursion 
was  going  to  do  for  him,  he  would  not  have  taken  part 
in  it;  how  is  it  no  sign  of  warning  comes  over  us  at 
these  times;  how  many  a  day's  pleasure  began  as  a 
jubilee,  how  many  a  voyage  entered  upon  in  hope  ends 
but  in  death.  Oh,  if  we  could  but  lift  the  veil  what 
mistakes  might  be  avoided!  George  Taylor,  strong  and 
active,  took  the  oars,  and  when  they  had  rowed  about 
to  their  hearts'  content  and  George  was  nearly  overdone 
from  exertion,  they  thought  that  they  would  land  for 
awhile  on  what  is  called  Dark  Point,  a  mossy  spot  green 
and  tempting  to  the  eye.  In  stepping  ashore  Miss  Flint 
tripped  and  lost  her  balance,  and  would  have  been  in 


72 


the  water,  but  for  George  who  saved  her,  but  could 
not  save  her  parasol,  an  elegant  one,  for  which  Miss  Flint 
had  paid  a  round  sum  cf  money  just  the  day  before;  she 
naturally  shrieked,  when  it  went  plunge  into  the  water, 
and  George,  in  recovering  it,  nearly  lost  his  balance,  and 
went  in  after  the  parasol,  nearly  not  quite;  he  got  himself 
pretty  wet,  but  he  made  light  of  it,  and  sat  on  the  grass 
with  the  others.  The  party  were  all  young,  old  people 
don't  venture  much  in  skiffs,  but  had  any  been  there  of 
mature  age*,  they  would  have  ordered  him  home  to  get 
a  change  of  clothes,  and  a  glass  of  brandy.  By  and  by  he 
began  to  feel  chilly,  it  might  have  occurred  to  him  that 
the  intense  perspiration  he  had  been  in  had  struck  in- 
wards, but  it  did  not.  In  the  evening  he  was  dancing 
with  the  rest  of  them  thinking  no  more  of  it,  apparently 
having  escaped  all  ill  effects  from  the  wetting. 


Chapter  VII. 


JOHN  SMITH'S  DINNER  PARTY. 

The  drawing-rooms  of  John  Smith's  mansion  were 
teeming  with  light,  with  noise,  and  with  company; 
a  dinner  party  had  taken  place  that  day,  a  gentleman's 
party.  It  was  not  often  that  he  gave  one,  and  when  he 
did  it  was  thoroughly  well  done.  George  Taylor  did  not 
give  better  dinners  than  Mr.  Smith.  The  only  promised 
guest  who  had  failed  in  his  attendance  was  Charles 
Taylor.  Very  rarely  indeed  did  he  accept  of  invita- 
tions to  dinner.  If  there  was  one  man  in  all  the  county 
to  whom  Mr.  Smith  seemed  inclined  to  pay  court,  to 
treat  with  marked  consideration  and  respect,  that  man 
was  Charles  Taylor;  he  nearly  always  declined — declined 
courteously,  in  a  manner  which  could  not  afford  the 
slightest  evidence  of  offense;  he  was  of  quiet  habits, 
not  strong  in  health  of  late,  and,  though  he  had  to  give 
dinner  parties  himself  and  attend  some  of  his  cousins'  for 
courtesy's  sake,  his  friends  nearly  all  were  kind  enough 
to  excuse  him  from  frequenting  theirs  in  return.  This 
time  Charles  Taylor  had  yielded  to  Mr.  Smith's  pressing 

73 


74 


entreaties  made  in  person  and  promised  to  be  present,  a 
promise  which  was  not,  as  it  proved  to  be,  kept.  All 
the  rest  of  the  guests  had  assembled  and  they  were  only 
waiting  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Taylor  to  sit  down  when 
a  hasty  note  arrived  from  Miss  Taylor.  "Mr.  Taylor 
was  taken  sick  while  dressing,  and  was  unable  to  attend." 
So  they  sat  down  without  him.  The  dinner  having  been 
over  most  of  the  guests  had  gone  to  the  drawing- 
room,  which  was  radiant  with  light  and  noisy  with  the 
hum  of  many  voices.  A  few  had  gone  home,  a  few  had 
taken  cigars  and  were  strolling  outside  the  dining-room 
windows  in  the  bright  moonlight.  Miss  Taylor's  note 
that  her  brother  had  been  taken  sick  while  dressing  for 
the  dinner  was  correct;  he  was  dressing  in  his  room  when 
he  was  attacked  by  a  sharp  internal  pain,  he  hastily  sat 
down,  a  cry  escaping  his  lips  and  drops  of  water  gather- 
ing on  his  brow;  alone  he  bore  it,  calling  for  no  aid;ina 
Eew  minutes  the  paroxysm  had  partially  passed  and  he 
rang  for  his  servant,  who  had  for  many  years  attended 
his  father.  "  George,  I  am  sick  again,"  said  Charles, 
quietly.  "  Will  you  ask  Miss  Taylor  to  write  a  line 
to  Mr.  Smith,  saying  that  I  am  unable  to  attend." 
George  cast  a  Strangely  yearning  look  on  the  pale 
suffering  face  of  his  master,  he  had  been  in  these 
paroxy8ms  of  pain  once  or  twice.  "  I  wish  you  would 
have  Mr.  Brown  called  in,  sir,"  he  cried.  "  I  think  I 
shall,  he  may  give  me  some  ease,  possibly;  take  my  mes- 
sage tO    your    mistress,   George."    The  effect  of  the 


75 


message  was  to  bring  Mary  to  his  room,  "  taken  sick,  a 
sharp  inward  pain,"  she  was  repeating  after  George. 
"  Charles,  what  kind  of  a  pain  is  it,  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  have  had  the  same  before?  "  "  Write  a  few  words 
the  first  thing,  will  you,  Mary;  I  do  not  like  to  keep  them 
waiting  for  me."  Mary  was  as  punctilious  as  Charles, 
and  as  considerate  as  he  was  for  the  convenience  of 
others,  and  she  sat  down  and  wrote  the  note,  dispatch- 
ing it  at  once  by  Billy,  another  of  the  servants;  few 
could  have  sat  apart  and  done  it  as  calmly  as  Mary,  con- 
sidering that  she  had  a  great  thumping  at  her  heart,  a 
fear  which  had  never  penetrated  it  until  this  moment. 
Their  mother's  sickness  was  similar  to  this,  a  sharp 
acute  pain  had  occasionally  attacked  her,  the  symp- 
ton  of  the  inward  malady  of  which  she  had  died.  Was 
the  same  fatal  malady  attacking  him?  The  doctors  had 
expressed  their  fears  then  that  it  might  be  hereditary. 
In  the  hall,  as  Mary  was  going  back  to  Charles'  room, 
the  note  having  been  written,  she  met  George,  the  sad 
apprehensive  look  in  the  old  man's  face  struck  her,  she 
touched  his  arm  and  motioned  him  into  another  room. 
"  What  is  it  that  is  the  matter  with  your  master?  "  "  I 
don't  know,"  was  the  answer;  but  the  words  were  spoken 
in  a  tone  which  caused  Mary  to  think  that  the  old  man  was 
awake  to  the  same  fears  that  she  was.  "  Miss  Mary,  I  am 
afraid  to  think  what  it  may  be."  "  Is  he  often  sick  like 
this?  "  "  I  know  but  of  a  time  or  two  ma'am,  but  that's 
a  time  or  two  too  many."    Mary  entered  his  room, 


76 


Charles  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  his  face  ghastly, 
apparently  prostrate  from  the  effects  of  the  pain;  if  a  mo- 
mentary thought  had  crossed  her  mind,  that  he  might  have 
written  the  note  himself,  it  left  her;  now  things  were  com- 
ing into  her  mind  one  by  one,  how  much  time  he  had 
spent  in  his  room  of  late;  how  seldom,  comparatively 
speaking,  he  went  to  his  office ;  how  often  he  called  for  the 
carriage,  when  he  did  go,  instead  of  walking;  only  this 
last  Sunday  he  had  not  gone  near  the  church  all  day  long, 
her  fears  grew  into  certainties.  She  took  a  chair,  draw- 
ing it  near  to  Charles,  not  speaking  of  her  fears,  but  ask- 
ing him  in  an  agreeable  tone  how  he  felt,  and  what  had 
caused  his  illness.  "Have  you  had  this  pain  before?" 
she  continued,  "  Several  times,"  he  answered,  "  but  it  has 
been  worse  to  night  than  I  have  previously  felt  it.  Mary  I 
fear  it  may  be  the  warning  of  my  call,  I  did  not  think  that 
I  would  leave  you  so  soon."  Except  that  Mary's  face 
turned  nearly  as  pale  as  his  and  that  her  lingers  en- 
twined themselves  together  so  tightly  as  to  cause  pain, 
there  was  no  outward  sign  of  the  grief  that  laid  hold  of 
her  heart.  "  Charles,  what  is  the  complaint  you  are  fear- 
ing? "she  asked  after  a  pause,  "  The  same  that  my 
mother  had,"  he  quietly  answered,  speaking  the  words 
that  Mary  would  not  speak.  "  It  may  not  be  so," 
gasped  Mary.  "True,  but  I  think  it  is."  "Why  have 
you  never  spoken  of  this?"  "  Because,  until  to-night,  I 
have  doubted  whether  it  was  so  or  not;  the  suspicion 
that  it  might  be  so,  certainly  was   upon  me,  but  it 


77 


amounted  to  no  more  than  a  suspicion;  at  times  when  I 
feel  quite  well  I  argue  that  I  must  be  wrong." 

"  Have  you  consulted  a  doctor?  "  "  I  am  going  to  do 
so  now.  I  have  just  sent  George  after  one."  "  It  should 
have  been  done  before,  Charles."  "  Why,  if  it  is  as  I 
suspect,  Brown  and  all  his  brethren  cannot  save  me." 
Mary  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  knee  and  sat  with  her 
head  bowed.  It  seemed  that  the  only  one  left  on  earth  with 
whom  she  could  sympathize  was  Charles,  and  now  per- 
haps he  was  going.  The  others  had  their  own  pursuits 
and  interests,  but  she  and  Charles  seemed  to  stand  to- 
gether; with  deep  sorrow  for  him,  the  brother  whom  she 
dearly  loved,  came  other  considerations,  impossible  not 
to  occur  to  a  practical,  foreseeing  mind  like  Mary's.  His 
elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  his  head  resting 
upon  his  hand,  sat  Charles,  his  mind  in  as  deep  a  reverie 
as  his  sister's.  Where  was  it  straying?  To  the  remem- 
brance of  Janey,  to  the  day  that  he  had  stood  over  her 
grave  when  they  were  placing  her  in  it,  was  the  time 
come,  or  nearly  come,  to  which  he  had  from  that  time 
looked  forward — the  time  of  his  joining  her.  Perhaps  the 
fiat  of  death  could  have  come  to  few  who  could  meet  it 
as  serenely  as  Charles  Taylor.  It  would  hardly  be  right 
to  say  welcome  it,  but  certain  it  was  that  the  prospect  was 
one  of  pleasure  rather  than  pain  to  him;  to  one  wrho  had 
lived  near  to  God  on  earth  the  anticipation  can  bring  no 
great  dismay.  It  brought  none  to  Charles  Taylor,  but 
he  was  not  done  with  earth  and  its  cares  yet.  Matilda 


7§ 


Taylor  was  away  from  home  that  week,  she  had  gone 
to  spend  it  with  some  friends  at  a  distance.  Martha  was 
alone  when  Mary  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  she  had 
no  suspicion  of  the  sorrow  that  was  overhanging  the 
house.  She  had  not  seen  Charles  go  to  his  office, 
and  felt  surprised  at  his  tardiness.  "  How  late  he  will 
be,  Mary."  "Who?  "  "  Charles."  "  He  is  not  going, 
he  is  not  very  well  to-day,"  was  the  reply.  Martha 
thought  nothing  of  it,  how  should  she.  Mary  buried 
her  fears  within  her,  and  said  no  more.  Martha  Taylor 
has  had  a  romance  in  her  life  as  so  many  have  had.  It 
had  partially  died  out  years  ago,  not  quite;  its  sequel  had 
to  come.  She  sat  there  listlessly,  her  pretty  hands  rest- 
ing on  her  knees,  her  beautiful  face  tinged  with  the  sun- 
light— sat  there  thinking  of  him — Mark  Blakely.  A  ro- 
mance it  had  really  been.  Martha  had  paid  a  long  visit 
to  Mrs.  Blakely  some  four  or  five  years  before  this  time. 
She,  Mrs.  Blakely,  was  in  perfect  health  then,  fond  of 
gayety,  and  had  many  visitors,  and  before  he  and  Martha 
knew  well  what  they  were  about,  they  had  learned  to  love. 
He  was  the  first  to  awake  from  the  pleasant  dream,  to 
know  what  it  meant,  and  he  directly  withdrew  himself 
out  of  harm's  way.  Harm  only  to  himself,  as  he  sup- 
posed. He  never  suspected  that  the  like  love  had  won 
its  way  to  Martha's  heart.  A  strictly  honorable  man, 
lie  would  have  killed  himself  in  self-condemnation  had 
he  Suspected  that  it  had.  Not  until  he  had  gone  did 
Martha  find  out  that  he  was  a  married  man.  When  only 


79 


nineteen  years  of  age  he  had  been  drawn  into  one  of 
those  unequal  and  unhappy  alliances  that  can  only  bring 
a  flush^  to  the  face  in  after  years.    Many  a  hundred 
times  had  it  dyed  that  of  Mark  Blakely.    Before  he  was 
twenty  he  had  separated  from  his  wife,  when  Miss 
Martha  was  still  a  child,  and  the  next  six  years  he  trav- 
eled on  the  continent,  striving  to  lose  its  remembrance. 
His  own  family,  you  may  be  sure,  did  not  pain  him  by 
alluding  to  it  then  or  after  his  return.    He  had  no  resi- 
dence in  the  neighborhood  of  Bellville.  When  he  visited 
the  town  he  was  the  guest  of  the  postmaster,  Mr.  Hunt. 
So  it  happened  when  Martha  met  him  at  his  home  she 
never  thought  of  his  being  a  married  man.    On  Mrs. 
Blakely's    part,  she  never  thought   that  Martha  did 
not   know    it.    Mark    supposed    she    knew    it,  and 
when  the  thought  would  flash  over  him,  he  would  say 
mentally,  "  how  she  must  despise  me  for  my  mad 
folly."    He   had  learned  to   love  her,  to   love  her 
passionately,  never  so  much  as  harboring  the  thought 
that   it   could   not   be   reciprocated — he   a  married 
man.    But  this  was  no  less  folly  than  the  other  had 
been,  and  Mark  Blakely  had  the  good  sense  to  leave 
the  place.    A  day  or  two  after  he  left  his  mother  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  him.    Martha  was  in  her  dressing- 
room  when  she  read  it.    "  How  strange,"  was  the  com- 
ment of  Mrs.  Blakely.    "  What  do  you  think,  Martha?" 
she  added,  lowering  her  voice.  "  When  he  reached  Paris 
there  was  a  note  sent  to  him  saying  that  his  wife  was 


8o 


dying,  and  imploring  him  to  come  and  see  her."  "His 
wife,"  cried  Martha;  "  whose  wife?  "  "  My  son's;  have 
you  forgotten  that  he  had  a  wife?  I  wish  that  we  all 
could  really  forget  it ;  it  has  been  the  blight  upon  his 
life."  Martha  had  discretion  enough  left  in  that  un- 
happy moment  not  to  betray  that  she  had  been  ignorant 
of  the  fact.  When  her  burning  cheeks  had  cooled  a  lit- 
tle, she  turned  from  the  window  where  she  had  been 
hiding  them  and  escaped  to  her  own  room.  The  revela- 
tion had  betrayed  to  her  the  secret  of  her  own  feelings 
for  Mark  Blakely,  and  in  her  pride  and  rectitude  she 
thought  that  she  would  die.  A  day  or  two  more  and  he 
was  a  widower.  He  suffered  some  months  to  elapse  and 
then  came  to  Bellville,  his  object  being  to  visit  Martha 
Taylor.  She  believed  that  he  meant  to  ask  her  to  be 
his  wife,  and  Martha  was  not  wrong.  She  could  give 
herself  up  now  to  the  full  joy  of  loving  him.  Busy 
tongues,  belonging  to  some  young  ladies  who  could 
boast  more  wit  than  discretion,  hinted  something  of  this 
to  Martha.  She,  being  vexed  at  having  her  private  feel- 
ings suspected,  spoke  slightingly  of  Mark  Blakely. 
"  Did  they  think  that  she  would  stoop  to  a  widower,  one 
who  had  made  himself  so  notorious  by  his  first  marriage?  " 
she  asked,  and  this,  word  for  word,  was  repeated  to  Mark 
Blakely;  it  was  repeated  to  him  by  those  false  friends, 
and  Martha's  haughty  manner  as  she  spoke  it  offensively 
commented  upon.  Mark  Blakely,  believing  it  fully, 
judged  that  he  had  no  chance  with  Martha,  and,  without 


8i 


speaking  to  her  of  his  intentions,  he  again  left.  But 
now  no  suspicion  of  this  conversation  having  been  re- 
peated to  him  ever  reached  Martha.  She  considered 
his  behavior  very  bad.  Whatever  restraint  he  had  laid  . 
upon  his  manner  towards  her  when  at  his  home,  he  had 
been  open  enough  since,  and  she  could  only  believe  his 
conduct  unjustifiable,  the  result  of  fickleness.  All  this 
time,  between  two  and  three  years,  had  she  been  trying 
to  forget  it.  If  she  had  received  an  offer  of  marriage 
from  a  young  and  handsome  man;  it  would  have  been 
in  every  way  desirable;  but  poor  Martha  found  that 
Mark  Blakely  was  too  deeply  seated  in  her  heart  for  her 
to  admit  thought  of  another.  And  again  Mark  Blakely 
had  returned  to  Bellville,  and,  as  Martha  had  heard, 
dined  at  Mrs.  Hunt's,  the  wife  of  the  postmaster;  he  had 
called  at  her  house  since  his  return,  but  she  was  out. 

She  sat  there  thinking  of  him,  her  prominent  feeling 
against  him  being  anger.  She  believed  until  this  hour 
that  he  had  treated  her  mean;  that  his  behavior  had  been 
unbecoming  a  gentleman.  Her  reflections  were  dis- 
turbed by  the  entrance  of  Doctor  Brown.  It  was  grow- 
ing dark  then,  and  she  wondered  what  brought  him 
there  so  late — in  fact,  what  brought  him  there  at  all. 
She  turned  and  asked  the  question  of  Mary.  "  He  has 
come  to  see  Charles,"  replied  Mary;  and  Martha  noticed 
that  her  sister  was  sitting  in  a  strangely  still  attitude,  her 
head  bowed  down;  but  she  did  not  connect  it  with  the 
real  cause.    It  was  nothing  unusual  to  see  Mary  lost  in 


82 


deep  thought.  "  What  is  the  matter  with  Charles,  that. 
Mr.  Brown  should  come?"  inquired  Martha.  "  He  did 
not  feel  well  and  sent  for  him."  It  was  all  that  Mary 
answered,  and  Martha  continued  in  blissful  ignorance  of 
anything  being  wrong  and  resumed  her  reflections  on 
Mark  Blakely.  Mary  saw  the  doctor  before  he  went 
away;  afterward  she  went  to  Charles'  room,  and  re- 
mained in  it.  Martha  remained  in  the  dining-room, 
buried  in  her  dream  of  love.  The  rooms  were  lighted, 
but  the  blinds  were  not  closed. 

Martha  wras  near  the  window,  looking  forth  into  the 
bright  moonlight.  It  must  have  been  getting  quite 
late,  when  she  discovered  some  one  approaching  their 
house.  She  thought  at  first  that  it  might  be  her 
cousin  George,  but,  as  the  figure  drew  nearer,  her 
heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  he 
upon  whom  her  thoughts  had  been  fixed.  Yes,  it  was 
Mark  Blakely.  When  he  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Hunt  that 
he  had  a  visit  to  pay  to  a  sick  friend,  he  had  reference 
to  Charles  Taylor.  Mark  Blakely,  since  his  return,  had 
been  struck  with  the  change  in  Charles  Taylor;  it  was 
more  perceptible  to  him  than  to  those  who  saw  Charles 
habitually,  and,  when  the  apology  came  for  Mr.  Taylor's 
absence,  Mark  determined  to  call  upon  him  at  once, 
though,  in  talking  with  Mrs.  Hunt,  he  nearly  let  the 
time  for  it  slip  bv.  Martha  arose  when  he  entered;  in 
broad  day  he  might  have  Been,  beyond  a  doubt,  her 
changing  face,  tilling  of  emotion.    Was  he  mistaken  in 


§3 


fancying  that  she  was  agitated?  I  lis  pulses  quickened 
at  the  thought,  for  Martha  was  as  dear  to  him  as  she 
had  ever  been.  "  Will  you  pardon  my  intrusion  at  this 
hour?"  he  asked,  taking  her  hand  and  bending  towards 
her  with  his  sweet  smile  "  It  is  later  than  I  thought  it 
was — indeed,  the  hall  clock  was  striking  ten!  I  was 
surprised  to  hear  of  your  brother's  illness,  and  wished  to 
hear  how  he  was  before  I  left  for  home."  "  He  has 
kept  his  room  this  evening,"  replied  Martha.  "  My  sister 
is  sitting  with  him;  I  do  not  think  it  is  anything  serious, 
but  he  has  not  appeared  very  well  of  late."  "  Indeed,  I 
trust  it  is  nothing  serious,"  warmly  responded  Mark 
Blakely.  Martha  fell  into  silence;  she  supposed  that 
the  servant  had  told  Mary  that  he  was  there  and  that 
she  would  be  in.  Mark  went  to  the  window.  "  The 
same  charming  scene,"  he  exclaimed;  "I  think  the 
moonlight  view  from  this  window  is  beautiful,  the 
dark  trees  around,  and  these  white  stone  mansions, 
rising  there,  remain  on  my  memory  like  the  scene  of 
an  old  painting."  He  folded  his  arms  and  stood 
there  gazing  still.  Martha  stole  a  look  up  at  him 
at  his  pale,  attractive  face,  with  its  expression  of  care. 
She  had  wondered  once  why  that  look  of  care  was  con- 
spicuous there;  but  not  after  she  became  acquainted 
with  his  domestic  history. 

"  Are  you  going  away  to  remain  Mr.  Blakely,"  the 
question  awoke  him  from  his  reverie,  he  turned  to 
Martha    and    a    sudden    impulse    prompted   him  to 


84 

address  her  on  the  subject  nearest  his  heart.  "I 
would  remain  if  I  could  induce  one  to  share  my 
name  and  home.  Forgive  me,  Martha,  if  I  anger 
you  by  speaking  so  hastily;  will  you  forget  the  past  and 
help  me  to  forget  it;  will  you  let  me  make  you  my  dear 
wife?"  In  saying  will  you  forget  the  past,  Mark 
Blakely  alluded  to  his  first  marriage  in  his  extreme 
sensitiveness  on  that  point,  he  doubted  whether  Martha 
would  object  to  succeed  the  dead  Mrs.  Blakely,  he  be- 
lieved those  hasty  and  ill-natured  words  reported  to  him 
as  having  been  spoken  by  her,  bore  on  that  point  alone. 
Martha  on  the  contrary  assumed  that  her  forgetfulness 
was  asked  for  his  own  behavior  to  her  in  so  far  that  he 
had  gone  away  and  left  her -without  a  word  of  explana- 
tion. She  grew  quite  pale  with  anger.  Mark  Blakely 
resumed;  his  manner  earnest,  his  voice  low  and  tender, 
"  I  have  loved  you  Martha  from  the  first  day  that  I  saw 
you  at  my  mother's,  I  dragged  myself  away  from  the 
place  because  I  loved  you,  fearing  that  you  might  come 
to  see  my  folly,  it  was  worse  than  folly  then,  for  I  was 
not  a  free  man.  I  have  continued  loving  you  more  and 
more  from  that  time  to  this.  I  went  abroad  this  last 
time  hoping  to  forget  you;  but  I  cannot  do  it,  and  my 
love  has  only  become  stronger.  Forgive,  I  say,  my 
urging  it  upon  you  in  this  moment  of  impulse."  Poor 
Martha  was  greatly  excited,  went  abroad  hoping  to  forget 
her,  striving  to  forget  her,  it  was  worse  and  worse.  She 
pushed  his  hand  away.  "  Oh!  Martha,  can  you  not  love 


85 


me?  "  he  exclaimed  in  agitation.  "  Will  you  not  give  me 
hopes  that  you  will  some  time  be  my  wife."  "  No,  I 
cannot  love  you;  I  will  not  give  you  hopes.  I  would 
rather  marry  any  man  in  the  world  than  you;  you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Mr.  Blakely!  "  Not  a  very 
dignified  rejoinder,  and  Martha  first  writh  anger  and  then 
with  love,  burst  into  even  less  dignified  tears,  and  left  the 
room  in  a  passion.  Mark  Blakely  bit  his  lips  in  disgust. 
Mary  entered  unsuspicious ;  he  turned  from  the  window 
and  smoothed  his  brow,  gathering  what  equanimity  he 
could  as  he  proceeded  to  inquire  after  Mr.  Taylor. 
About  a  month  after  this  interview  Martha  Taylor 
walked  out  from  the  dining-room  to  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  the  spring  evening,  or  to  indulge  her  own 
thoughts  as  might  be.  She  strayed  to  the  edge  of  the 
grounds  and  there  sat  down  on  the  garden  bench,  not 
to  remain  alone  long.  She  was  interrupted  by  the  very 
man  upon  whom,  if  the  disclosure  must  be  made,  her 
evening  thoughts  had  centered.  He  was  coming  up  with 
a  quick  step,  seeing  Martha  he  stopped  to  accost  her, 
his  heart  beating,  beating  from  the  quick  steps  or  from 
the  sight  of  Martha,  he  best  knew.  Many  a  man's 
heart  has  beaten  at  the  sight  of  a  less  lovely  vision.  She 
wore  white,  set  off  with  blue  ribbons,  and  her  golden 
hair  glittered  in  the  sunlight.  She  nearly  screamed 
with  surprise;  she  had  been  thinking  of  him,  it  was 
true,  but  as  one  who  was  miles  away.  In  spite  of  his 
stormy  and  not  long  past  rejection,  he  went  straight  to 


86 


her  and  held  out  his  hand.  Did  he  notice  that  her  blue 
eves  dropped  beneath  his  as  she  rose  to  answer  his 
greeting?  that  the  soft  color  on  her  cheeks  changed  to 
a  hot  damask.  "  I  fear  I  have  surprised  you,"  said 
Mark.  "  A  little,"  acknowledged  Martha.  "  I  did  not 
know  you  were  in  Bellville.  Charles  will  be  glad  to  see 
you." 

"  She  turned  to  walk  with  him  to  the  house  and 
as  in  courtesy  bound,  Mark  Blakely  offered  her  his 
arm,  and  Martha  condescended  to  accept  it;  neither 
broke  the  silence,  and  they  reached  the  large  porch  at 
the  Taylor  mansion.  Martha  spoke  then.  "Are  you 
going  to  make  a  long  stay  in  England?"  A  very  short 
one ;  a  party  of  friends  are  leaving  for  New  York,  and  they 
wish  me  to  accompany  them,  I  think  I  shall  go."  "  To 
New  York  that  is  a  long  distance."  Mark  smiled,  "  I  am 
an  old  traveler,  you  know."  Martha  opened  the  dining- 
room  door,  Charles  was  alone,  he  had  left  the  table  and 
was  seated  in  his  armchair  by  the  window,  a  glad  smile 
illumed  his  face  when  he  saw  Mark,  he  was  one  of  the 
very  few  of  whom  Charles  had  made  a  close  friend, 
these  close  friends,  not  more  than  one  or  two  perhaps, 
can  we  meet  in  a  life-time;  acquaintances  many,  but 
friends,  those  to  whom  the  heart  can  speak  out  its  in  - 
most thoughts  who  may  be  as  our  own  souls,  how  few. 
"Have  you  been  to  tea?"  asked  Charles.  "  I  have  dined 
at  the  hotel,"  replied  Mark.  "  Have  you  come  to  make 
a  long  stay?"  inquired  Charles.   "  I  shall  leave  to-mor- 


87 


row,  having  nothing  to  do  I  thought  that  I  would  come 
and  see  you,  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  looking  better." 
"  The  warm  weather  seems  to  be  doing  me  a  little 
good,"  was  Charles  Taylor's  reply;  a  consciousness 
w  ithin  him  of  how  little  better  he  really  was,  Charles  pro- 
ceeded with  Mark  to  the  drawing-room  where  his  sisters 
were,  and  a  pleasant  hour  or  two  they  all  spent  together. 


Chapter  VIII. 


GEORGE  TAYLOR  GIVES  A  PARTY. 

"VyT  atilda  laughed  at  him  a  great  deal  about  his  pro- 
^  ^  posed  expedition  to  New  York,  telling  him  she 
did  not  believe  that  he  was  serious  in  saying  he  enter- 
tained it.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  soft,  warm  and  lovely, 
the  clock  was  striking  ten  when  Mark  arose  to  depart. 
"  If  you  will  wait  a  few  minutes  I  will  go  a  little  way  with 
you,"  said  Charles  Taylor,  lie  withdrew  to  another  room 
for  his  coat,  then  he  rejoined  him,  passed  his  arm  in  Mark 
Blakely's  and  went  out  with  him.  "Is  this  New  York 
project  a  joke?"  asked  Charles.  "Indeed,  no,  I  have 
not  quite  made  up  my  mind  to  go,  I  think  I  shall;  if  so, 
I  shall  go  in  a  week  from  this,  why  should  I  not  go,  I 
have  no  settled  home,  no  ties?"  "  Should  you  not, 
Mark,  be  the  happier  if  you  had  a  settled  home;  you 
might  form  ties,  I  think  a  roving  life  must  be  a  very 
undesirable  one."  "  It  is  one  I  was  never  fitted  for,  my 
inclination  would  lead  me  to  love  home  and  domestic  hap- 
piness, but  as  you  know,  I  put  that  out  of  my  power." 
"  For  a  time,  but  that  is  over,  you  might  marry  again." 

88 


So 


"  I  do  not  think  I  ever  shall,"  returned  Mark  Blakely, 
feeling  half  prompted  to  tell  his  unsuspicious  friend  that 
his  own  sister  was  the  barrier. 

"  You  have  never  married,"  he  resumed,  allowing  the 
impulse  to  die  away.  Charles  Taylor  shook  his  head; 
"  the  cases  are  different,"  he  said:  "In  your  wife  you 
lost  one  whom  you  could  not  regret."  "  Don't  call  her 
by  that  name  Charles;"  burst  forth  Mark  Blakely.  "And 
in  Janey  I  lost  one  who  was  all  the  world  to  me  who 
could  never  be  replaced,"  Charles  resumed,  after  a 
pause;  "  the  cases  were  widely  different."  "  Yes,  widely 
different,"  assented  Mark  Blakely,  they  walked  on  in 
silence,  each  buried  in  his  own  thoughts,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  road,  Mark  Blakely  stopped,  and  took 
Charles  Taylor's  hand  in  his,  "  you  shall  not  come  any 
farther  with  me." 

Charles  stopped  also,  he  had  not  intended  to  go 
farther.  "  You  shall  really  go  to  New  York  then."  "  I 
believe  I  shall."  "  Take  my  blessing  with  you,  then 
Blakely  we  may  never  meet  again  in  this  world." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mark.  "The  medical  men  enter- 
tain hopes  that  my  life  may  not  be  terminated  so  speedily, 
I  believe  that  a  few  months  will  end  it,  I  may  not  live 
to  welcome  you  home."  It  was  the  first  intimation 
Mark  Blakely  had  received  of  Charles  fatal  malady, 
Charles  explained  to  him;  he  was  overwhelmed.  "  Oh 
my  friend!  my  friend!  can  not  death  be  coaxed  to  spare 
you!"  he  called  out  in  excitement,  how  many  have  vainly 


9o 

echoed  the  same  cry!  A  few  more  words,  a  long  grasp 
of  the  lingering  hands,  and  they  parted,  Charles  with  a 
God  speed,  Mark  with  a  different  prayer,  a  God  save 
upon  his  lips.  Mark  Blakely  turned  to  the  road,  Charles 
towards  home.  George  Taylor's  dinner-table  was 
spacious,  but  the  absence  of  one  person  from  it  was 
conspicuous.  Mr.  Blakely's  chair  was  still  left.  "  He 
would  come  yet."  George  said  there  was  no  clergy- 
man present,  and  Charles  Taylor  said  the  grace,  he  sat 
at  the  foot  of  the  table  opposite  his  cousin. 

"We  are  thirteen!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Feathersmith,  a 
young  man  of  this  aristocratic  gathering,  "  it  is  the  omi- 
nous number,  you  know."  Some  of  them  laughed. 
"What  is  that  pecular  superstition?"  asked  Major 
Black,  "  I  have  never  been  able  to  understand  it." 
"  The  superstition  is  that  if  a  party  of  thirteen  sit  down 
to  dinner  one  of  them  is  sure  to  die  before  the  year  is 
up,"  replied  the  young  man,  speaking  with  grave  seri- 
ousness. "Why  is  not  thirteen  as  good  a  number  to  sit 
dow  n  as  any  oilier  number?  "  cried  Major  Black.  "  As 
good  as  fourteen,  for  instance?  "  "  It's  the  odd  number." 

The  odd  number;  it's  no  more  the  odd  number  than  any 
other  number  is  odd  that's  not  even.  What  do  you  say  to 
eleven?  What  do  you  say  to  fifteen?"  "  I  can't  ex- 
plain it,"  returned  the  young  man,  with  an  air  of  in- 
difference. "I  only  know  that  the  superstition  does 
exist,  and  that  I  have  noticed  in  more  instances  than 
one  that  it  has  been  carried  out.  Three  or  four  parties  of 


thirteen  who  have  sat  down  to  dinner  have  lost  one  of  their 
number  before  the  close  of  the  year.  You  laugh  at  me, 
of  course.  I  have  been  laughed  at  before;  but  suppose 
you  notice  it  now;  there  are  thirteen  of  us,  see  if  we  all 
are  alive  at  the  end  of  the  year."  Charles  Taylor  in 
his  heart  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  one  of  them,  at 
any  rate,  would  not  be  living.  Several  faces  were  smiling 
with  amusement,  the  most  serious  of  them  was  Mark 
Blakely.  "  You  don't  believe  in  it,  Blakely  ?  "  cried  one, 
in  surprise,  as  he  gazed  at  him.  "  I  certainly  do  not,  why 
should  you  ask  it?  "  "  You  look  so  grave  over  it." 
"  I  never  like  to  joke,  though  it  be  but  a  smile,  on 
the  subject  of  death,"  replied  Mark.  "  I  once  received 
a  lesson  on  the  point,  and  it  will  serve  me  for  life." 
"  Will  you  tell  us  w^hat  it  was?"  interposed  Mr. 
Feathersmith,  who  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Blakely  that 
day.  "  I  cannot  tell  it  now,"  replied  Mark.  "  It  is  not  a 
subject  suited  to  a  merry  party,"  he  frankly  added,  "  but 
it  wrould  not  tend  to  bear  out  your  superstition,  sir;  you 
are  possibly  thinking  that  it  might."  "  If  I  have  sat 
down  once  with  thirteen,  I  have  sat  down  fifty  times," 
cried  Major  Black,  "  and  we  all  lived  the  year  out  and 
many  after  that.  I  would  not  mention  such  nonsense 
again,  if  I  were  you."  The  young  man  did  not  answTer  for 
a  moment,  he  was  enjoying  a  glass  of  wine.  "  Only  notice, 
that's  all,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  want  to  act  the  simpleton, 
but  I  don't  like  to  sit  down  with  thirteen."  "  Could  we 
not  make  Bell  the  scapegoat  and  invoke  the  evil  to 


92 


fall  on  his  head?  "  cried  a  mocking  voice.  "  It  is  his  fault." 
"Mr.  Feathersmith,"  interrupted  another,  "how  do 
you  estimate  the  time?  Is  the  damage  to  accrue  before 
this  year  is  out  or  do  you  give  us  full  twelve  months 
from  this  evening?  "  "  Ridicule  me  as  much  as  you  like, 
said  the  young  man,  good  humoredly.  "  All  I  say  is, 
notice  if  every  one  of  us  now  here  are  alive  this  time  next 
year,  then  I'll  not  put  faith  in  it  again.  I  hope  we  shall 
be."  "  I  hope  we  shall  be,  too,"  said  Major  Black.  "  You 
are  a  social  subject,  though,  to  invite  to  dinner.  I  should 
fancy  Mr.  George  Taylor  was  thinking  so."  Mr.  George 
Taylor  appeared  to  be  thinking  of  something  that 
rendered  him  somewhat  mentally  disturbed,  in  point  of 
fact  his  duties  as  host  were  considerably  broken  into  by 
listening  at  the  door;  above  the  conversation,  the  clatter 
of  plates,  the  drawing  of  corks,  his  ear  was  alive,  hop- 
ing for  the  knock  which  would  announce  Mr.  Bell. 

It  was,  of  course,  strange  that  he  neither  came  nor 
sent,  but  no  knock  seemed  to  come  and  George  could 
only  rally  his  powers  and  forget  him.  It  was  a  recherche 
repast.  George  Taylor's  state  dinners  always  were;  no 
trouble  or  expense  was  spared  at  them;  luxuries  in  sea- 
son and  out  of  season  were  there;  the  turtle  would  seem 
richer  at  his  table  than  any  other,  the  vension  more  than 
venison,  the  turkeys  had  a  sweeter  flavor,  the  sparkling 
champagne  was  of  the  rarest  vintage,  the  dinner  this 
day  did  not  disgrace  its  predecessors  and  the  guests 
seemed  to  enjoy  themselves  to  the  utmost  in  spite  of  the 


93 


absence  of  Mr.  Bell  and  Mr.  Feathersmith's  prognostica- 
tions thereon.  The  evening  was  drawing  on,  and  some 
of  the  gentlemen  were  solacing  themselves  with  a  cup  of 
coffee,  when  the  butler  slipped  a  note  into  George's  hand. 
"  The  man  is  waiting  for  an  answer,  sir,"  he  whispered. 
George  glided  out  of  the  room  and  read  it,  so  fully  im- 
pressed was  he  that  it  came  from  Mr.  Bell  explaining 
the  cause  of  his  absence  that  he  had  to  read  it  twice  over 
before  he  could  take  in  the  fact  that  it  was  not  from  him ; 
it  was  few  lines  in  pencil  from  the  popular  hotel  and  run- 
ning as  follows :  "  Dear  George,  I  am  not  feeling  well  and 
have  stopped  here  on  my  journey,  call  at  once  or  I  shall 
be  gone  to  bed,  Adam  Miller."  One  burning  desire 
had  hung  over  George  all  the  evening  that  he  could  run 
up  to  Bell's,  and  learn  the  cause  of  his  absence.  His  ab- 
sence in  itself  would  not  in  the  least  have  troubled 
George,  but  he  had  a  most  urgent  reason  for  wishing  to 
see  him,  hence  his  anxiety.  To  leave  his  guests  to 
themselves  would  have  been  scarcely  the  thing,  but 
this  note  appeared  to  afford  just  the  excuse  wanting, 
at  any  rate  he  determined  to  make  it  the  excuse.  "  A 
messenger  brought  this,  I  suppose,"  he  said  to  the  but- 
ler. "  Yes,  sir."  "My  compliments  and  I  will  be  with 
Mr.  Miller  directly."  George  went  into  the  room  again, 
intending  to  proclaim  his  proposed  absence  and  plead 
Mr.  Miller's  illness  which  he  would  put  up  in  a  strong 
light  as  his  justification  for  the  inroad  upon  good  man- 
ners a  sudden  thought  came  over  him  that  he  would  only 


94 


tell  Charles.  George  drew  him  aside,  "  Charles,  you  be 
host  for  me  for  half  an  hour,"  he  whispered.  "  Mr. 
Miller  has  just  sent  me  an  urgent  summons  to  come  and 
see  him  at  the  hotel;  he  was  passing  through  here  and 
was  compelled  to  stop  for  sickness."  "  Won't  to-mor- 
row morning  do?  "  asked  Charles.  "  No,  I  will  be  back 
before  they  have  time  to  miss  me,  if  they  do  miss  me,  say 
it  is  a  duty  of  friendship  that  any  one  of  them  would  have 
answered  as  I  am  doing,  if  called  upon.  I'll  soon  be 
back."  Away  he  went.  Charles  felt  unusually  well 
that  evening  and  exerted  himself  for  his  cousin.  Once  out 
of  the  house  George  hesitated  whether  he  should  go 
to  see  Mr.  Bell  or  Mr.  Miller.  He  went  to  Mr.  Miller. 
They  had  been  friends  first  at  school,  then  at  college, 
and  since  up  to  now.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  sent  for 
you,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Miller  holding  out  his  hand.  "  I 
hear  you  have  friends  this  evening."  "  It's  the  kindest 
thing  you  could  have  done  for  me  this  evening,"  an- 
swered George.  "  I  would  have  given  anything  for  a 
plea  to  be  absent  myself,  and  your  letter  came  and  af- 
forded it."  What,  else  they  said,  was  between  them- 
selves; it  was  not  much,  and  in  five  minutes  he  was  on 
his  way  to  Bell's;  on  he  strode  his  eager  feet  scarcely 
touching  the  ground,  he  lifted  his  hat  and  wiped  his  brow, 
hot  with  anxiety;  it  was  a  very  bright  night  the  moon 
high;  he  reached  the  mansion,  and  rang  the  bell:  "Is 
Mr.  Bell  at  home?"  "  He's  gone  to  the  North  River," 
was  the  answer.    "  A  pretty  trick  he  played  me  this 


95 

evening,"  said  George  in  a  tone  of  dismay.  "What 
trick,"  repeated  the  house-keeper.    "  Gone  to  North 
River,  it  cannot  be."  "  He  is,"  said  she  positively;  "  when 
I  came  from  market,  I  found  him  going  off  by  the  train 
he  had  received  a  message  which  took  him  up." 

"  Why  did  he  not  call  upon  me,  he  knew  the  neces- 
sity there  was  for  me  to  see  him,  he  ought  to  have 
come."  "  I  conclude  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  catch  the 
train,"  said  she.  "Why  did  he  not  send?"  "I  heard 
him  send  a  verbal  message  by  one  of  the  servants  to  the 
effect  that  he  was  summoned  unexpectedly  to  North 
River,  and  could  not,  therefore,  attend  your  dinner. 
How  early  you  have  broken  up!"  "We  have  not 
broken  up,  I  left  my  guests  to  see  after  him.  No  mes- 
sage was  brought  to  me."  "  Then  I  will  enquire,"  be- 
gan she,  rising,  but  George  waved  her  back.  "  It  is  of 
little  consequence,"  he  said.  "  It  might  have  saved  me 
some  suspense,  but  I  am  glad  I  got  the  dinner  over  with- 
out knowing  it.  I  would  like  to  see  him."  George 
arose  to  go.  "  Not  there,  not  that  way,"  she  said,  for 
George  was  turning  as  if  he  would  go  into  a  dark  hall, 
and  she  arose  and  went  with  him  to  the  door.  He  in- 
tended to  take  the  lonely  road  homewards,  that  dark, 
narrow  road  you  may  remember,  where  the  maple  trees 
met  overhead.  All  at  once  George  Taylor  did  take  a 
step  back  with  a  start,  when  just  inside  the  walk  there 
came  a  dismal  groan  from  some  dark  figure  seated  on  a 
broken  bench.    It  was  all  dark  there,  the  thick  maple 


96 


trees  hid  the  moon.  George  had  just  emerged  from 
where  her  beams  shone  bright  and  open,  and  not  at  first 
did  he  distinguish  who  was  sitting  there,  but  his  eyes 
grew  accustomed  to  the  obscurity.  "  Charles,"  he  ut- 
tered in  consternation,  "  is  that  you?"  For  answer, 
Charles  Taylor  caught  hold  of  his  cousin,  bent  forward 
and  laid  his  head  on  George's  arm,  another  deep  groan 
breaking  from  him;  that  George  Taylor  would  rather 
have  been  waylaid  by  a  real  ghost  than  by  his 
cousin  at  that  particular  time  and  place,  was  certain; 
better  that  the  whole  world  should  detect  any  undue 
anxiety  for  Mr.  Bell's  companionship  then  than  Charles 
Taylor,  at  least  George  thought  so,  but  conscience  makes 
the  best  of  us  cowards,  nevertheless  he  gave  his  earnest 
sympathy  to  his  cousin.  "  Lean  on  me  Charles,  let  me 
support  you,  how  have  you  been  taken  sick?  "  another 
minute  and  the  paroxysm  of  pain  was  past.  Charles 
wiped  the  moisture  from  his  brow,  and  George  sat 
clown  on  the  narrow  bench  beside  him.  "  How  came 
you  to  be  here  alone,  Charles.  Where  is  your  carriage?  " 
"I  ordered  the  carriage  early  and  it  came  just  as  you 
were  going  away,"  explained  Charles.  "  Feeling  well, 
I  sent  it  away  again,  saying  I  would  walk  home,  the 
pain  struck  me  just  as  I  reached  this  spot  and  but  for 
the  bench  I  should  have  fallen."  "  But  George,  what 
brings  you  here?  "  was  the  next  very  natural  question. 
"  You  told  me  that  you  was  going  to  see  Miller?  "  "  So 
I  was — so  I  did,"  said  George,  speaking   volubly.    "  1 


97 


found  him  poorly,  I  told  him  that  he  would  do  better  in 
bed  and  came  away;  it  was  a  nice  night;  I  felt  inclined 
for  a  run,  and  went  to  Bell's  to  ask  what  kept  him  away. 
He  was  sent  for  up  at  North  River  it  seems,  and  sent 
an  apology,  but  I  did  not  get  it.  In  some  way  or  other 
I  think  it  was  misplaced  by  the  servants."  Charles  Tay- 
lor might  well  have  rejoined  "  If  Bell  was  away  where 
did  you  stop,"  but  he  made  no  remark.  "  Are  they  all 
gone,"  asked  George,  alluding  to  his  guests.  "  They 
are  all  gone,  I  made  it  right  with  them  respecting  your 
absence;  my  being  there  was  almost  the  same  thing, 
they  appeared  to  regard  it  so.  George,  I  believe  I  must 
have  your  arm  as  far  as  the  house,  see  what  an  old 
man  I  am  getting  to  be."  "  Will  you  not  rest  longer,  I 
am  in  no  hurry  as  they  have  gone?  What  can  this 
pain  be  that  seems  to  be  attacking  you  of  late?"  "  Has 
it  never  occurred  to  you  what  it  might  be?"  rejoined 
Charles.  "  No,"  replied  George,  but  he  noticed  that 
Charles'  tone  was  a  peculiar  one,  and  he  began  to  think 
of  all  the  ailments  that  flesh  is  heir  to.  "  It  cannot  be 
rheumatism,  can  it  Charles?"  "  It  is  something  worse 
than  rheumatism,"  he  said,  in  his  serene,  ever  thought- 
ful tone.  "  A  short  time  George,  and  you  will  control 
my  share  of  the  business."  George's  heart  seemed  to 
stand  still  and  then  bound  onward  in  a  tumult. 
"What  do  you  mean,  Charles;  what  do  you  think 
is  the  matter  with  you?"  "Do  you  remember 
what    killed    my    mother?"    There    was    a  painful 


98 


pause.  "  Oh,  Charles!"  "That  is  it,"  said  Charles 
quietly.  "  I  hope  you  are  mistaken!  I  hope  you  are 
mistaken !  "  reiterated  George.  "  Have  you  a  physician ; 
you  must  have  advice !  "  "I  have  had  it,  Brown  con- 
firms my  suspicions.  I  asked  for  the  truth."  "  Who  is 
Brown,"  returned  George,  disparagingly.  "  Go  to 
London,  Charles,  and  consult  the  best  medical  men 
there." 

"  For  the  satisfaction  of  you  all  I  can  do  so,"  he  re- 
plied; " but  it  will  not  benefit  me."  "  Good  heavens! 
what  a  dreadful  thing,"  uttered  George,  with  feeling; 
"  what  a  blow  to  fall  upon  you."  "  You  would  re- 
gard it  so  were  it  to  fall  upon  you,  and  naturally  you 
are  young,  joyous,  and  have  something  to  live  for." 
George  Taylor  did  not  feel  joyous  then,  had  not  felt 
particularly  joyous  for  a  long  time;  some  how  his  own 
(  lire  was  a  burden  to  him;  he  lifted  his  right  hand  to 
his  temple  and  kept  it  there;  Charles  suffered  his  own 
hand  to  fall  upon  George's  left,  which  rested  on  his  knee. 
"Don't  grieve,  George,  I  am  more  than  resigned.  I 
think  of  it  as  a  happy  change;  this  world  at  its  best  is 
full  of  care;  if  we  seem  free  from  it  one  year  it  only 
falls  more  unsparingly  the  next;  it  is  wisely  ordered, 
were  the  world  made  too  pleasant  for  us,  we  might  be 
wishing  it  was  our  permament  home;  few  weary  of  it, 
whatever  may  be  their  care,  until  they  have  learned  to 
look  for  a  better.  In  the  days  gone  by,  I  have  felt 
tempted  to  wonder  why  Janev  should  have  been  taken," 


99 


resumed  Charles.  "  I  see  now  how  merciful  the  fiat 
was,  George.  I  have  been  more  thoughtfully  observant 
perhaps,  than  many  are,  and  I  have  learned  to  see,  to 
know,  how  marvelously  all  the  fiats  are  fraught  with 
mercy;  full  of  dark  sorrows  as  they  may  seem  to  us,  it 
would  have  been  a  bitter  trial  to  me  to  leave  her  here 
unprotected  in  deep  sorrow.  I  scarcely  think  I  could 
been  reconciled  to  go,  and  I  know  what  her  grief  would 
have  been.  All's  for  the  best."  Very  rare  was  it  for 
undemonstrative  Charles  thus  to  express  his  hidden  sen- 
timents. George  never  knew  him  to  do  so  before;  the 
time  and  place  were  peculiarly  fitted  for  it,  the  still,  bright 
night,  telling  of  peacefulness,  the  shady  trees  around, 
the  blue  sky  overhead;  in  these  paroxysms  of  pain 
Charles  felt  himself  brought  face  to  face  with  death. 
"  It  will  be  a  blow  to  Mary,"  said  George,  the  thought 
striking  him.  "  She  will  feel  it  as  one.  Charles,  can  noth- 
ing be  done  for  you?"  was  the  impulsive  rejoinder. 
"  Could  it  have  been  done  for  my  mother?"  "  I  know, 
but  since  then  science  has  been  broadened;  diseases  once 
incurable  yield  now  to  medical  skill.  I  wish  you  would 
go  to  London."  There  are  some  diseases  which  bring 
death  with  them  in  spite  of  human  skill,  which  will  bring 
it  to  the  end  of  time,"  rejoined- Charles.  "  This  is  one." 
"  Well,  Charles,  you  have  given  me  enough  for  to-night, 
and  for  a  great  many  more  nights  and  days,  too.  I  wish 
I  had  not  heard  it;  it  is  a  dreadful  affliction  for  you. 
I  must  say  it  is  a  dreadful  affliction."    "  The  disease  or 


IOO 


the  ending  you  mean?"  asked  Charles,  with  a  smile. 
"  Both  are,  but  I  spoke  more  particularly  of  the  disease. 
The  disease  in  itself  is  a  lingering  death,  and  nothing 
better.  "  A  lingering  death  is  the  most  favored,  as  I 
regard  it;  a  sudden  death  the  most  unhappy  one.  See 
what  time  has  given  me  to  set  my  house  in  order,"  he 
added,  the  sober  smile  deepening.  "  I  must  not  fail  to 
do  it  well.  "And  the  pain,  Charles,  that  will  be  linger- 
ing, too."  "  I  must  bear  it."  He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and 
put  his  arm  in  his  cousin's.  He  stood  a  minute  or  two 
as  if  getting  strength,  and  then  walked  on,  leaning  heav- 
ily on  George.  It  was  the  pain,  the  excessive  agony, 
that  unnerved  him ;  a  little  while,  and  he  would  seem  in 
the  possession  of  his  strength  again.  "  George,  I  can 
not  tell  how  you  will  manage  the  business  when  I  am 
gone,"  he  continued,  more  in  a  business-like  tone.  "  I 
think  of  it  a  great  deal.  Sometimes  I  fancy  it  might  be 
better  if  you  took  a  staid,  sober  partner,  one  of  middle 
age,  a  thorough  man  of  business.  Great  confidence  lias 
been  accorded  me,  you  know,  George.  I  suppose  peo- 
ple like  my  steady  habits." 

"  They  like  you  for  your  honest  integrity;"  returned 
George,  the  words  seemed  to  break  from  him  impul- 
sively, "  I  shall  manage  very  well,  I  dare  say,  when  the 
time  comes,  I  Suppose  I  must  settle  down  to  business  to 
be  more  like  what  you  have  been,  I  can,"  he  continued  in 
a  sort  of  soliloquy,  u  I  can,  and  I  will."  But  they  walked 
on  slowly  neither  saying  a  word  until  they  reached  the 


IOI 


house.  George  shook  hands  with  his  cousin,  "  don't 
you  attempt  to  come  to  business  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  come  up  in  the  evening  to  see  you." 

"  Won't  you  come  in  now,  George  ?"  "  Thank  you. 
Good  night,  Charles,  I  heartily  wish  you  better."  There 
went  on  the  progress  of  a  few  days  and  another  week 
had  dawned  and  Charles  seemed  to  all  appearances  to  be 
improving,  he  arose  now  to  the  early  breakfast  table,  he 
began  to  hasten  to  business  for  there  was  much  work 
there  wTith  the  accounts,  and  one  morning  when  they 
were  at  breakfast  the  old  servant  entered  with  one  or 
two  letters  for  Charles,  but  before  the  old  man  could 
reach  his  master,  whose  back  was  toward  the  door,  Mary 
made  him  a  sign  and  he  laid  the  letters  down  on  a  re- 
mote table.  Charles  had  been  receiving  a  large  number 
of  letters  of  late,  and  Mary  was  fearful  that  so  much  busi- 
ness might  bring  on  another  of  those  spells  and  deemed 
it  just  as  well  that  he  should  at  least  eat  his  breakfast  in 
peace.  The  circumstances  of  the  letters  having  passed 
from  her  mind  he  ate  on  in  silence,  but  Martha  and  Ma- 
tilda were  discussing  certain  news  which  they  had  re- 
ceived the  previous  day,  news  which  had  surprised  them 
concerning  the  engagement  of  a  lady  who  had  looked 
upon  matrimony  as  folly. 


Chapter  IX. 


CHARLES  RECEIVES  ANOTHER  STROKE. 

1~Y  usy  talking  they  did  not  particularly  notice  that 
'  Charles  had  risen  from  his  chair  at  the  breakfast 
table  and  was  seated  at  a  distant  table  opening 
his  letters  until  a  faint  sound,  something  like  a 
groan,  startled  them;  he  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
seemingly  unconscious,  his  hands  had  fallen,  his  face 
gave  signs  of  the  grave;  surely  those  dews  upon  it  were 
not  the  dews  of  death!  Martha  screamed,  Matilda 
flung  open  the  door  and  called  out  for  help;  Mary  only 
turned  to  them  her  hands  lifted  to  enjoin  silence,  a  warn- 
ing word  upon  her  lips,  their  old  servant  came  running 
in  and  looked  at  Charles.  "  He'll  be  better  directly," 
lie  whispered.  "  Yes,  he  will  be  better"  assented  Mary, 
"  but  I  should  call  the  doctor.''  Charles  began  to  re- 
vive, lie  slowly  opened  his  eyes  and  raised  his  hand 
to  wipe  the  moisture  from  his  white  brow.  On  the  table 
before  him  lay  one  of  the  letters  open.  Mary  pushed 
the  letters  aside  with  a  gesture  of  grievous  vexation. 
"  It  is  this  business  that  has  affected  you,"  she  cried  out 


103 

with  a  wail.  "  Not  so,"  breathed  Charles.  "  It  was 
the  pain  here."  He  touched  himself  below  the  chest  in 
the  same  place  where  the  pain  had  been  before.  What 
had  caused  the  pain,  mental  agony  arising  from  over- 
work or  the  physical  agony  arising  from  disease?  Proba- 
bly some  of  both.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  the 
letters  making  a  motion  that  they  should  be  placed  in 
envelopes.  George,  who  could  not  have  read  a  word 
without  his  glasses,  took  up  the  letters,  folded  them  and 
put  them  in  their  envelopes.  Charles'  mind  seemed  at 
rest  and  he  closed  his  eyes  again.  "  Til  step  for  the 
doctor  now,"  whispered  George  to  Mary,  "  I  shall  catch 
him  before  he  goes  out  on  his  rounds."  He  took  his  hat 
and  went  down  the  road  to  the  office,  putting  forth  his 
best  step,  when  he  reached  the  office  the  doctor  had 
gone.  "  Will  he  be  long,"  asked  George  ?  "I  don't 
know,"  was  the  reply,  "  he  was  called  out  at  seven  this 
morning."  "  He  is  wanted  at  the  Taylor  mansion.  Mr. 
Taylor  is  worse."  "  Is  he  ?"  returned  the  assistant,  his 
quick  tone  indicating  concern.  "  I  can  tell  you  where  he 
is,  and  that's  at  Bangs,"  continued  the  assistant.  "  You 
might  call  and  speak  to  him  if  you  like,  it's  on  your  way 
home."  George  hastened  there  and  succeeded  in  finding 
the  doctor.  He  informed  him  that  Charles  was  worse; 
was  very  sick.  "  One  of  the  old  attacks  of  pain,  I  sup- 
pose," said  the  doctor.  "  Yes,  sir,"  answered  George. 
"  He  was  taken  sick  while  answering  letters.  Miss 
Mary  thought  it  might  be  overwork  that  brought  it  on." 


104 

"  Ah!"  said  the  doctor,  and  there  was  a  world  of  em- 
phasis on  the  m6nosyllable.  "Well,  I  shan't  be  de- 
tained here  over  half  an  hour  longer,  and  I  shall 
come  straight  up."  He  reached  there  within  half  an 
hour  after  George.  Mary  saw  him  approaching  and 
came  into  the  hall  to  meet  him.  She  was  look- 
ing very  sad  and  pale.  "  Another  attack,  I  hear," 
began  the  doctor,  in  his  unceremonious  mode  of  salu- 
tation, "  bothered  into  it,  I  suppose;  George  says  it  came 
on  while  he  was  reading  letters."  "  Yes,"  answered 
Mary,  in  acquiescence,  her  tone  a  resentful  one.  "  It 
was  brought  on  by  overwork."  The  doctor  gave  a 
groan  as  he  turned  towards  the  stairs.  "  Not  there," 
interposed  Mary,  "  he  is  in  the  dining-room."  With  the 
wan,  white  look  upon  his  face,  with  the  moisture  of  pain 
on  his  brow  lay  Charles  Taylor.  He  was  on  the  sofa 
now,  but  he  partially  rose  from  it  and  assumed  a  sitting 
posture  when  the  doctor  entered.  A  few  professional 
questions  and  answers  and  then  the  doctor  began  to 
scold.  "  Did  I  not  warn  you  that  you  must  have  perfect 
tranquility/5  cried  he,  "rest  of  body  and  of  mind?"  "You 
did,  but  how  am  I  to  get  it,  even  now  I  ought  to  be  at 
the  office.  I  shall  die  however  it  may  be,  doctor,"  was 
the  reply  of  Charles  Taylor.  "  So  will  most  of  us,  I 
expect,"  returned  the  doctor,  "  but  there's  no  necessity 
for  us  to  be  helped  on  to  it  ages  before  death  would 
come  of  itself."  "True,"  replied  Charles,  but  his  tone 
was  not  a  hopeful  one.    There  was  a  pause,  Charles 


broke  it.  "  I  wish  you  could  give  me  something  to  avert 
these  sharp  attacks  of  pain,  doctor,  it  is  agony  in  fact, 
not  pain."  "  I  know  it,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  What's 
the  use  of  my  attempting  to  give  you  anything?  You 
don't  take  my  prescription."  Charles  lifted  his  eyes  in 
surprise.  "  I  have  taken  all  that  you  desired  me."  "  No, 
you  have  not;  I  prescribe  tranquillity  of  mind  and  body; 
you  take  neither."  Charles  leaned  nearer  to  the  doctor 
and  paused  before  he  answered.  "  Tranquillity  of  mind 
for  me  has  passed,  I  can  never  know  it  again ;  were  my 
life  to  be  prolonged  by  the  great  healer  of  all  things, 
time  might  bring  it  to  me  in  a  degree,  but  for  that  I 
shall  not  live,  doctor;  you  must  know  this  to  be  the  case 
under  the  calamity  which  has  fallen  upon  my  head." 
"  At  any  rate  you  cannot  go  on  facing  business  any 
longer."  "  I  must,  indeed,  there  is  no  help  for  it." 
"  And  suppose  it  kills  you,"  was  the  retort.  "  If  I  could 
help  going  I  would,"  said  Charles.  "  George  has  gone 
away."  The  doctor  arose  and  departed  after  giving 
Charles  a  severe  lecture.  Miss  Taylor  sat  at  one  of  the 
west  windows,  her  cheek  rested  pensively  on  her  fingers 
as  she  thought,  oh,  with  what  bitterness  of  the  grievous 
past  she  sat  there  losing  herself  in  regret  after  regret. 
If  my  father  and  mother  had  not  died;  she  lost  herself, 
I  say,  in  these  regrets,  bitter  as  they  were  vain.  How 
many  of  these  useless  regrets  might  embitter  the  lives  of 
us  all,  how  many  do  embitter  them?  If  I  had  but  done 
so  and  so;  if  I  had  taken  the  right  when  I  turned  to  the 


io6 


wrong;  if  I  had  known  who  that  person  was  from  the 
first  and  shunned  his  acquaintance;  if  I  had  chosen  that 
path  in  life  instead  of  this  one;  if  I  had,  in  short,  done 
exactly  the  opposite  to  what  I  did  do.    Vain,  vain  re- 
pinings;  vain,  useless  repinings.    The  only  plan  is  to 
keep  them  as  far  as  possible  from  our  hearts.    If  we 
could  foresee  the  end  of  a  thing  at  its  beginning,  if  we 
could  buy  a  stock  of  experience  at  the  outset  of  life,  if 
we  could,  in  fact,  become  endowed  with  the  light  of 
divine  wisdom,  what  different  men  and  women  the 
world  would  see.    But  we  cannot  undo  the  past,  it  is 
ours  with  all  its  folly,  its  shortsightedness.    Perhaps  it's 
guilt,  though  we  stretch  out  our  yearning  and  pitiful 
hands  to  Heaven  in  their  movement  of  agony,  though 
we  wail  out  our  bitter  my  Lord  pardon  me!  heal  me! 
help  me!  though  we  beat  on  our  remorseful  bosom  and 
tear  away  its  flesh  piecemeal  in  bitter  repentance.  We 
cannot  undo  the  past;  we  cannot  undo  it.    The  past 
remains  to  us  unaltered,  and  must  remain  so  forever. 
Perhaps  some  idea  of  this  kind  of  the  utter  uselessness 
of  these  regrets,  but  no  personal  remorse  attached  to 
her,  was  making  itself  heard  in  the  mind  of  Miss  Taylor 
even  through  her  grief.    She  had  clasped  her  hands 
upon  her  bosom  now  and  bent  her  head  downwards, 
completely  lost  in  retrospect. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  Charles.  He  sat 
opposite  her  at  the  other  corner  of  the  window;  he  ap- 
peared to  be  buried  in  thought,  neither  spoke  a  word; 


presently  Mary  arose  to  leave  the  room  and  George  met 
her  almost  immediately,  showing  in  Mr.  Blakely.  He 
hastened  forward  to  prevent  Charles  from  rising.  Laying 
one  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  the  other  on  his  hands 
he  pressed  him  down  and  would  not  let  him  rise.  The 
slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  falling  on  the  face 
of  Charles  Taylor,  lighting  up  its  handsome  outlines,  the 
cheeks  were  thinner,  the  hair  seemed  scantier,  the  truth- 
ful gray  eyes  had  acquired  an  habitual  expression  of 
pain.  Mr.  Blakely  leaned  over  him  and  noted  it  all. 
"  Sit  down,"  said  Charles,  drawing  the  chair  which  had 
been  occupied  by  Mary  nearer  to  him.  Mr.  Blakely 
accepted  the  invitation,  but  did  not  release  the  hand. 
They  subsided  into  conversation,  its  theme  as  was 
natural,  the  health  of  Charles  and  the  topics  of  the  day  and 
weather.  Charles  sat  in  calmness  waiting  for  him  to 
proceed;  nothing  could  stir  him  greatly  now.  Mr. 
Blakely  gave  him  the  outline  of  the  past,  of  his  love  for 
Martha  and  her  rejection  of  him.  "  There  has  been 
something  in  her  manner  of  late,"  he  continued,  "  which 
has  renewed  hope  within  me,  otherwise  I  should  not  be 
saying  this  to  you  now;  quite  of  late,  since  her  rejection 
of  me,  I  have  observed  what  I  could  not  describe,  and  I 
have  determined  to  risk  my  fate  once  more."  "  But  I 
did  not  know  that  you  loved  Martha."  "  I  suppose  not. 
It  has  seemed  to  me,  though,  that  my  love  must  have 
been  patent  to  the  world.  You  would  give  her  to  me, 
would  you  not?  "  "  Thankfully,"  was  the  warm  answer. 


io8 


"The  thought  of  leaving  these  girls  unprotected  has 
been  one  of  my  cares.  Let  me  give  you  one  consola- 
tion Blakely,  that  if  Martha  has  rejected  you  she  has  re- 
jected others.  Mary  fancied  she  had  some  secret  at- 
tachment; can  it  have  been  concerning  yourself?  "  "  If 
so  why  has  she  rejected  me?  "  "  I  don't  know;  she  has 
been  grievously  unhappy  since  I  have  been  sick,  almost 
like  one  who  had  no  further  hope  in  life."  "  What  is  it, 
George?"  "  A  message  has  come  from  Mrs.  Bangs." 
Charles  spoke  a  word  of  apology  to  Blakely  and  left  the 
room;  in  the  hall  he  met  Martha  crossing  to  it; she  went 
in  quite  unconscious  who  was  its  occupant;  he  rose  to 
welcome  her.  A  momentary  hesitation  in  her  steps,  a 
doubt  whether  she  should  not  run  away  again,  and  then 
she  recalled  her  senses  and  went  forward.  How  it  went 
on  and  what  was  exactly  said  or  done  neither  of  them 
could  remember  afterwards.  A  very  few  minutes  and 
Martha's  head  was  resting  upon  his  shoulder;  all  the 
mistakes  of  the  past  cleared  up  between  them.  She 
might  not  have  confessed  to  him  how  long  she  had  loved, 
all  since  that  long  time  when  they  were  together  at  his 
home,  but  for  her  dread  that  he  might  think  she  was 
only  accepting  him  on  account  of  Charles'  days  being 
numbered.  She  told  the  truth,  that  she  had  loved  him 
and  him  only  all  along.  "  Martha,  my  dear,  what  a  long 
misery  might  have  been  spared  me  had  I  known  this." 
Martha  looked  down.  Perhaps  some  might  have  been 
spared  her  also.  "  Would  you  like  to  live  here?  "  asked 


log 


Mark.  «  Oh,  yes;  if  it  can  be."  "  They  will  be  glad  to 
have  me  set  a  price  on  some  of  these  houses  around 
here."  Martha's  eyelids  were  bent  on  her  hot  cheeks; 
she  did  not  raise  them.  "  If  you  like  we  might  ask 
Mary  and  Matilda  to  live  with  us,"  resumed  Mark 
Blakely  in  his  thoughtful  consideration.  "  Our  home 
will  be  large  enough."  "  Their  home  is  decided  upon," 
said  Martha  shaking  her  head,  "  and  they  will  remain  in 
their  own  home.  Mary  has  an  annuity,  you  know;  it 
was  money  left  to  her  by  mamma's  sister,  so  that  she  is 
independent;  can  live  where  she  pleases;  but  I  am  sure 
she  will  go  to  New  York  on  a  visit  as  soon  as  " —  "  I 
understand  you  Martha;  as  soon  as  Charles  shall  have 
passed  away."  The  tears  were  glistening  in  her  eyes. 
"  Do  you  not  see  a  great  change  in  him?  " 

"  A  very  great  one,  Martha ;  I  should  like  him  to  give 
you  to  me.  Will  you  waive  ceremony  and  be  mine  at 
once?"  "At  once,"  she  repeated,  stammering  and  look- 
ing at  him.  "  I  mean  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  two, 
as  soon  as  you  can  make  it  convenient.  Surely  we  have 
waited  long  enough."  "  I  will  see,"  murmured  Martha, 
a  grave  expression  arose  to  Mr.  Blakely's  face.  "  It 
must  not  be  very  long,  Martha,  if  you  would  be 
mine  while  your  brother  is  in  life."  "  I  will!  I  will!  it 
shall  be  as  you  wish,"  she  answered,  the  tears  falling 
from  her  eyes,  and  before  she  could  make  any  rejoin- 
der she  had  hastily  quitted  him,  and  standing  before 
the  window  stealthily  drying  her  wet  cheeks,  for  the 


no 


door  had  opened  and  Charles  Taylor  had  entered 
the  room. 

All  the  neighbors  of  Bellville  lingered  at  its  doors  and 
windows  curious  to  witness  the  outer  signs  of  Martha 
Taylor's  wedding;  the  arrangements  for  it  were  to  them 
more  a  matter  of  speculation  than  of  certainty  since  vari- 
ous rumors  had  been  afloat  and  were  eagerly  caught  up, 
although  of  the  most  contradictory  character,  all  that  ap- 
peared certain  as  yet,  was  that  the  day  was  charming 
and  the  bells  were  ringing;  to  keep  the  crowd  back  was 
an  impossibility  and  when  the  first  carriage  came,  the 
excitement  in  the  street  was  great;  it  was  drawn  by  two 
beautiful  horses,  the  livery  of  the  postillions  and  the  crest 
on  the  panels  of  the  carriage  proclaimed  it  to  be  Charles 
Taylor's.  Mark  Blakely  sat  inside  with  Martha,  the  next 
carriage  contained  the  sisters  and  Charles  Taylor,  the  third 
contained  the  bridesmaids  wearing  hats  and  beautiful 
gowns,  and  the  others  coming  up  contained  the  aristocratic 
friends  of  the  parties  concerned;  there  was  a  low  mur- 
mur of  sorrow,  of  sympathy  and  it  was  called  forth  by 
the  appearance  of  Charles  Taylor;  it  was  some  little 
time  now  since  Charles  Taylor  had  been  seen  in  public 
and  the  change  in  him  was  startling;  he  walked  forward 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  George  Taylor,  lifting  his  hat  to 
the  greeting  that  was  breathed  around,  a  greeting  of 
sorrow  meant,  as  he  knew,  for  him  and  his  blighted  life, 
the  few  scanty  hairs  stood  out  to  their  view  as  he  un- 
covered his  head,  and  the  ravages  of  the  disease  that 


Ill 


was  killing  him  were  all  too  conspicuous  on  his  wasted 
features.  "  God  bless  him,  he's  very  near  to  the  grave," 
who  said  this  among  the  crowd,  Charles  could  not  tell,  but 
the  words  and  their  pathos  full  of  rude  sympathy  came 
distinctly  upon  his  ear.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Davis  stood 
at  the  altar,  he,  too  had  changed,  the  keen,  vigorous, 
healthy  man  had  now  a  gray  worn  look;  he  stood  there 
waiting  for  the  wedding  party;  the  pews  were  filled 
with  ladies  dressed  appropriately  for  the  occasion,  and 
the  church  was  filled  with  sweet-smelling  flowers  and 
their  fragrance  filled  the  air;  the  bridesmaids  led  the 
way,  then  came  Martha  and  Charles  Taylor;  she  wore 
an  elegant  gown  of  white  satin,  a  tulle  veil  and  orange 
blossoms,  diamond  ornaments,  the  gift  of  the  groom — as 
lovely  a  bride  as  ever  stood  at  the  altar.  Mr.  Blakely 
and  Miss  Mary  Taylor  came  next;  she  wore  a  gray  silk 
of  rare  modern  pattern.  The  recollection  of  the 
wedding  service,  that  he  had  promised  to  perform  for 
Charles  Taylor  and  Janey  Brewster  caused  the  pastor's 
voice  to  be  subdued  now  as  he  read;  how  had  that  con- 
templated union  ended;  the  pastor  was  thinking  it  over 
now.  This  one  was  over,  the  promises  made,  the  register 
signed  and  parson  Davis  stepped  before  them  and  took 
the  hand  of  Martha.  "  I  pray  God  that  your  union 
may  be  a  happy  one;  that  rests  in  a  great  de- 
gree with  you;  Mark  Blakely,  take  care  of  her,"  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  Blakely  grasped  his  hand 
warmly  and  said:   "  I  will!  I  will."    "Let  me  bless  you 


112 


both,  Blakely,"  broke  in  the  quiet  voice  of  Charles  Ta)'- 
lor.    "  It  may  be  that  I  shall  not  see  you  again." 

"  Oh!  but  we  shall  meet  again,  you  must  not  die  yet," 
exclaimed  Mark  Blakely  with  feverish  eagerness.  "  My 
friend  I  would  rather  part  with  the  whole  world,  save 
Martha  than  with  you."  Their  hands  lingered  together 
and  separated.  They  reached  the  carriage,  notwith- 
standing the  crowd  pushed  and  danced  around  it,  the 
placing  in  of  Martha,  and  Mark  taking  his  seat  beside  her, 
seemed  to  be  but  the  work  of  a  moment,  so  quickly  was 
it  clone,  and  Mark  Blakely,  a  pleasant  smile  upon  his 
face,  bowed  to  the  shouts  on  either  side  as  the  carriage 
wended  its  way  through  the  crowd,  not  until  it  had  got 
into  clear  ground  did  the  postillions  put  their  horses  to  a 
canter,  and  the  bride  and  groom  were  fairly  on  their 
bridal  tour.  There  was  more  ceremony  needed  to  place 
the  ladies'  in  the  other  carriages.  Miss  Taylor's  skirts 
in  their  extensive  richness  took  five  minutes  to  arrange 
themselves,  ere  a  space  could  be  found  for  Charles 
beside  her,  the  footman  held  the  door  for  him,  the  other 
carriages  drove  up  in  order  and  were  driven  quietly 
away,  after  having  been  filled  with  fair  ladies  and  their 
escorts. 


Chapter  X. 


A  PEACEFUL  HOUR. 

Tn  the  old  porch  at  Beliville,  of  which  you  have  read  so 
^  much,  sat  Charles  Taylor.  An  invalid-chair  had  been 
placed  there,  and  he  lay  back  on  its  pillows  in  the  beams 
of  the  afternoon  sun  of  the  late  autumn ;  a  warm  sunny 
dayithadbeen.  He  was  feeling  wonderously  well;  almost, 
but  for  his  ever  present  weakness,  quite  well;  his  fatigue 
of  the  previous  day,  that  of  Martha's  wedding,  had  left 
no  permanent  effects  upon  him,  and  had  he  not  known 
thoroughly  his  own  hopeless  state  he  might  have  fancied 
this  afternoon  that  he  was  approaching  convalescence. 
Not  in  his  looks,  pale,  wan,  ghastly  were  they, 
the  shadow  of  the  grim  implacable  visitor,  that  was  so 
soon  to  come,  was  already  on  them ;  but  the  face  in  its 
calm,  stillness  told  of  ineffable  peace.  The  brunt  of  the 
storm  had  passed.  The  white  walls  of  the  Taylor 
mansion  glittered  brightly  in  the  distance,  the  dark  blue 
sky  was  seen  through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  grow- 
ing bare  and  more  bare  against  tl  s  coming  winter,  The 
warm  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on  Charles  Taylor.    In  his 

113 


ii4 


hand  he  held  a  book  from  which  others  than  Charles 
Taylor  have  derived  consolation  and  courage.  "  God  is 
love."  He  was  reading  at  that  moment  of  the  great 
love  of  God  towards  those  who  strive  as  he  had  done  to 
live  for  him.  He  looked  up,  repeating  the  sentence, 
"  He  loves  them  in  death  and  will  love  them  through  the 
never  ending  ages  to  come."  Just  then  his  eyes  fell  on 
the  figure  of  George,  their  old  servant  man,  who  was 
advancing  towards  the  mansion.  Charles  closed  his 
book  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  You  are  not  going  to 
leave  us  yet,  Mr.  Taylor."  "  I  know  not  how  soon  it 
may  be  George,  very  long  it  cannot  be;  sit  down."  He 
stood  yet,  however,  looking  at  him,  disregarding  the 
bench  to  which  he  had  pointed,  stood  with  a  saddened  ex- 
pression and  compressed  lips.  George's  eye  was  an 
experienced  one,  and  it  may  be  that  he  saw  the  picture 
which  had  taken  up  its  abode  in  his  face. 

"  You  be  going  to  see  my  old  master  and  mistress  sir," 
he  said  dashing  some  rebellious  moisture  from  his  eyes. 
"  Mr.  Charles  do  you  remember  it,  my  poor  mistress  sat 
here  in  this  porch  the  very  day  she  died,"  "  I  remem- 
ber it  well,  George.  I  am  dying  quietly,  thank  God,  as  my 
mother  died."  "  And  what  a  blessing  it  is  when  folks 
can  die  quietly  with  their  conscience,  and  all  about  'em 
at  peace,"  ejaculated  George.  "  I  am  on  the  threshold 
of  a  better  world,  George,"  was  his  quiet  answer,  "  one 
where  sorrow  cannot  enter."  George  sat  for  some  little 
time  on  the  bench  talking  to  him,  they  had  gone  back 


"5 


in  thought  to  old  times,  to  the  illness  and  death  of  his 
mother,  to  the  long  gone  scenes  of  the  past,  whether 
of  pleasure  or  pain — a  past  which  for  us  all  seems  to 
bear  a  charm  when  recalled  to  the  memory  which 
it  had  never  borne;  at  length  George  arose  to  de- 
part, declining  to  remain  longer;  Charles  was  in  his 
armchair  seated  by  the  fire  as  Mary  entered  the  room, 
his  face  would  have  been  utterly  colorless  save  for  the 
bluish  tinge  which  had  settled  there  a  tinge  distinguish- 
able even  in  the  red  blaze.  "  Have  you  come  back 
alone,"  asked  Charles,  turning  towards  her.  "  George 
Taylor  accompanied  me  as  far  as  the  head  of  the  street. 
Have  you  had  your  medicine,  Charles?"  "  Yes."  Mary 
drew  a  chair  near  to  him,  and  sat  down,  glancing  almost 
stealthily  at  him ;  when  this  ominous  look  appears  on  the 
human  face  we  do  not  like  to  look  into  it  too  boldly  lest 
its  owner,  so  soon  to  be  called  away,  may  read  the  fiat 
in  our  own  dread  countenance,  she  need  not  have  feared 
its  effects,  had  he  done  so,  on  Charles  Taylor.  "  How 
are  you  feeling  to  night?"  somewhat  abruptly  asked 
Mary.  "  Never  better  of  late  days;  it  seems  as  if  ease 
both  of  mind  and  body  has  come  to  me."  Mary  turned 
her  eyes  from  the  fire  that  the  tears  rising  in  them  might 
not  be  seen  to  glisten,  and  exclaimed:  "  What  a  mis- 
fortune." "  A  misfortune  to  be  taken  to  my  rest,  to  the 
good  God  who  has  so  loved  and  kept  me  here.  A  few 
minutes  before  you  came  in  I  fell  into  a  doze  and  I 
dreamt  I  saw  Jesus  Christ  standing  by  the  window  wait- 


n6 


ing  for  me,  he  had  his  hand  stretched  out  to  me  with  a 
smile,  so  vivid  had  been  the  impression  that  when  I 
awoke,  I  thought  it  was  a  reality.  Death  a  misfortune ! 
no,  Mary,  not  for  me."  Mary  rang  the  bell  for  lights 
to  be  brought  in,  Charles,  his  elbow  resting  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  bent  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  became 
lost  in  the  imagination  of  glories  that  might  so  soon  open 
to  him,  bright  forms  were  flitting  around  a  throne  of 
wondrous  beauty,  golden  harps  in  their  hands,  and  in 
one  of  them,  her  harp  idle,  her  radiant  face  turned  as  if 
watching  for  one  who  might  be  coming,  he  seemed  to 
recognize  Janey.  A  misfortune  for  the  good  to  die !  No. 

George  Taylor,  a  cousin  to  this  family,  was  seated  at 
his  desk  in  the  office  when  his  attention  was  called  by  a 
rap  at  the  door.  George  opened  the  door,  and  the  old  ser- 
vant came  in.  "It  is  all  over,  sir,"  he  said;  his  manner 
strangely  still,  his  voice  unnaturally  calm  and  low,  as  is 
sometimes  the  case  where  emotion  is  striven  to  be  sup- 
pressed. Miss  Mary  bade  me  come  to  you  with  the  tidings. 
George's  bearing  was  suspiciously  quiet,  too.  "  It  is  very 
sudden,"  he  presently  rejoined.  "  Very  sudden,  sir,  and 
yet  my  mistress  did  not  seem  unprepared  for  it,  he  took 
his  tea  with  her,  and  was  so  cheerful  over  it  that  I  began 
to  hope  he  had  taken  a  fresh  turn,  my  mistress  called 
me  In  to  give  directions  about  a  little  matter  she  wanted 
done  to-morrow,  afid  while  she  was  speaking  to  me, 
Miss  Matilda  cried  out.  We  turned  round  and  saw  her 
leaning  over  my  master,  he  had  slipped  back  in  his  chair 


n7 


powerless,  and  I  hastened  to  raise  and  support  him.  Death 
was  in  his  face,  there  was  no  mistaking  it,  but  he  was 
quite  conscious,  quite  sensible  and  smiled  at  us.  c  I  must 
say  farewell  to  you,'  he  said,  and  Miss  Matilda  burst 
into  a  fit  of  sobs,  but  my  mistress  kneeled  down  quietly 
before  him  and  took  his  hands  in  hers  and  said,  '  Charles, 
is  the  moment  come?'  *  Yes,  it  is  come;'  he  answered, 
and  tried  to  look  round  at  Miss  Matilda,  who  stood  a 
little  behind  his  chair.  6  Don't  grieve,'  he  said,  ' 1  am 
going  on  first,'  but  she  only  sobbed  the  more.  6  Good 
by,  my  dear  ones,'  he  continued,  <  I  shall  wait  for  you  all 
as  I  know  I  am  being  waited  for.'  *  Fear?'  he  went  on, 
for  Miss  Matilda  sobbed  out  something  that  sounded 
like  the  word.  '  Fear,  when  I  am  going  to  God,  when  I 
saw  Jesus — Jesus — '  "  George  fairly  broke  down  with  a 
great  burst  of  grief,  and  the  tears  were  silently  rolling  over 
the  old  man's  cheeks.  "  It  was  the  last  word  he  spoke, 
4  Jesus,'  his  voice  ceased,  his  hands  fell,  and  the  eyelids 
dropped,  there  was  no  struggle,  nothing  but  a  long  gen- 
tle breath,  and  he  died  with  the  smile  upon  his  lips." 
Cousin  George  leaned  his  head  on  the  side  of  the  window 
to  subdue  his  emotion,  to  gather  the  outward  calmness 
that  man  likes  not  to  have  ruffled  before  the  world;  he 
listened  to  the  strokes  of  the  passing  bell  ringing  out  so 
sharply  in  the  still  night  air,  and  every  separate  stroke 
was  laden  with  its  weight  of  pain. 

You  might  have  taken  it  for  Sunday  in  Bellville,  ex- 
cept that  Sundays  in  ordinary  do  not  look  so  gloomy;  the 


n8 


stores  were  closed,  a  drizzling  rain  came  down,  and  the 
heavy  bell  was  booming  out  at  solemn  intervals;  it  was 
tolling  for  the  funeral  of  Charles  Taylor.  Morning  and 
night  from  eight  to  nine  had  it  so  tolled  since  his  death,  he 
had  gone  to  his  long  home,  to  his  last  resting-place,  and 
Bellville  mourned  for  him  as  for  a  brother.  Life  wears  dif- 
ferent aspects  for  us  and  its  cares  and  its  joys  are  unequally 
allotted,  at  least  they  appear  so  to  be.  One  glances 
up  heavily  from  careworn  burdens,  and  sees  others 
without  care  basking  in  the  sunshine,  but  I  often 
wonder  whether  those  who  seem  so  gay  whose  path 
seems  to  be  cast  on  the  broad  sunshiny  road  of  pleasure 
whether  they  have  not  a  skeleton  in  their  closet;  nothing 
but  gayety,  nothing  but  lightness,  nothing  to  all  appear- 
ances, but  freedom  from  care.  Is  it  really  so,  perhaps 
with  some,  a  very  few.  Is  it  well  for  those  few?  Oh,  if 
we  could  but  see  the  truth  when  the  burden  upon  us  is 
heavy  and  pressing.  Fellow  sufferers,  if  we  could  but  read 
that  burden  aright,  we  should  see  how  good  it  is,  and 
bless  the  hand  that  sends  it.  But  we  never  can;  we  are 
but  mortal;  born  with  a  mortal's  keen  susceptibility  to 
care  and  pain,  we  preach  to  others  that  these  things 
are  sent  for  their  good,  we  say  so  to  ourselves  when  not 
actually  suffering,  but  when  the  fiery  trial  is  upon  us 
then  we  groan  out  in  our  sore  anguish  that  it  is  greater 
than  we  can  bear.  The  village  clock  struck  eleven  and 
the  old  sexton  opened  the  doors  of  the  church,  and  the 
inhabitants  of  this  beautiful  village  assembled  to*see  the 


ii9 


funeral  as  it  came  slowly  winding  along  the  street  to  the 
sound  of  the  solemn  bell;  they  might  have  attended  him 
to  the  grave  following  unobtrusively,  but  that  was  known 
to  be  the  wish  of  the  family  that  such  demonstration 
should  not  be  made.  "  Bury  me  in  the  plainest  manner 
possible "  had  been  his  directions  when  the  end  was 
drawing  near.  The  hearse  and  carriages  are  standing 
at  the  mansion;  fine  horses,  with  splendid  trappings,  in 
modern  carriages,  have  come  from  the  various  parts  of 
the  country  near  and  distant  to  show  their  owner's  hom- 
age to  that  good  man  who  had  earned  their  deepest  re- 
spect through  life;  slowly  the  procession  reached  the 
church,  and  the  hearse  and  carriages  stopped  at  it;  some 
of  the  cariages  filed  off,  and  the  drivers  turned  their 
horses'  heads  to  face  the  church,  and  waited  still  and 
quiet  while  the  hearse  was  emptied.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Davis  stood  at  the  altar,  book  in  hand,  reciting  the  com- 
mencement of  the  service  for  the  burial  of  the  dead, 
"  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,"  with  measured 
steps  slowly  following  went  those  who  bore  the  coffin; 
their  heads  covered  with  a  black  pall,  the  sisters  and 
their  cousin  George  came  next,  with  their  old  servants 
following,  thus  they  entered  the  church,  he  remained  at 
the  altar,  but  not  reading  from  it,  the  church  was  nearly 
filled  by  ones  and  twos;  they  had  come  in,  and  when  all 
was  quiet,  he  read  the  history  of  the  life  of  the  deceased 
in  a  solemn  manner,  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the 
audience;  the  sermon  having  been  finished,  they  repaired 


120 


to  the  grave,  the  pastor  taking  his  place  at  the  head, 
and  read  the  service  as  the  coffin  was  lowered,  the 
mourners  stood  next  to  him,  and  the  other  friends  were 
clustered  around,  their  heads  bent,  the  drizzling  rain  beat 
down  upon  their  bare  heads,  the  doctor  came  up,  unable 
to  attend  earlier,  he  came  now  at  the  last  moment,  just 
as  George  Taylor  had  come  years  ago  to  the  fune- 
ral of  Janey  Brewster.  Did  the  pastor  of  Bellville, 
standing  there  with  his  pale  face,  his  sonorous  voice 
echoing  over  the  graves,  recall  those  back  funerals, 
when  he  over  whom  the  service  was  now  being  read 
had  stood  as  chief  mourner?  No  doubt  he  did.  Did 
George  recall  it?  The  pastor  glanced  at  him  once,  and 
saw  that  he  had  a  difficulty  in  suppressing  his  emotion. 
"  I  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven  saying  unto  me,  write 
from  henceforth  blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the 
Lord,  even  so  saith  the  Spirit,  for  they  rest  from  their 
labors."  So  profound  was  the  silence,  that  every  word 
as  it  fell  solemnly  from  the  lips  of  the  minister  might  be 
heard  in  all  parts  of  the  churchyard;  if  ever  that  verse 
could  apply  to  frail  humanity,  with  its  unceasing  strug- 
gle after  holiness,  and  its  unceasing  failure  here,  it  most 
surely  apply  to  him  over  whom  it  was  being  spoken. 
Bend  forward,  as  so  many  of  those  spectators  are  doing, 
and  read  the  inscription  on  the  plate,  Charles  Taylor, 
aged  40  years.  Only  forty  years,  a  period  at  which 
some  men  think  they  are  beginning  life,  it  seemed  to  be 
an  untimely  death,  and  it  would  have  been,  after  all  his 


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pain  and  sorrow,  but  that  he  had  entered  upon  a  better 
life. 

They  left  him  in  the  vaulted  grave,  his  coffin  near  his 
mother's,  who  lay  beside  his  father;  the  spectators  began 
to  draw  unobtrusively  away,  silently  and  solemnly.  In 
the  general  crowd  and  bustle,  for  everybody  was  on  the 
move,  George  turned  to  the  pastor  and  shook  hands 
with  him.  "  It  was  a  peaceful  ending."  George  was 
gazing  down  dreamily  as  he  spoke  the  last  words;  the 
pastor  looked  at  him.  "  A  peaceful  ending!  yes;  it 
could  not  be  otherwise  with  him."  "  No,  no,"  mur- 
mured George;  "Not  otherwise  with  him."  "May 
God  in  his  mercy  send  us  all  as  happy  a  one  when  our 
time  shall  come."  As  the  words  left  the  pastor's  lips 
the  loud  and  heavy  bell  boomed  out  again,  giving  notice 
to  the  town  that  the  last  rites  were  over,  that  life  had 
closed  forever  on  Charles  Taylor. 


